Paradise Lost: The 95th Hunger Games
by Little Knight Mik
Summary: "Awake, arise, or for ever be fall'n." Partial SYOT Open
1. Prologue

**This? This is just for fun tbh. I've got a notice on my profile about how I'm not in a good headspace to write Ad Verse related content, so I figured I'd do a partial (yeah, this is a partial) set in an unrelated, probably one-off universe. Pure self-indulgence, I say. I've got the form on my profile and there's a blogTM with info on the mentors of this chapter, and I'll be doing like two? three? chapters introducing my own characters before subs close.**

**This'll work on a similar concept to featured tributes, in that while everyone gets a POV, only one tribute from each District has a chance to win the Games. They'll be underlined on the dooblydoo on my profile.**

**Enjoy, I guess? Yeah, enjoy.**

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**00 - Prologue**

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The two dozen people at the table cheered when Lazlow entered the room. Wine glasses rose, cutlery clinked against plates, and a chair was pulled out for him just as the main course was being served.

He hadn't paid much attention to what was being served for dinner tonight—even if he'd been the one to organise the damn get-together—so he was sure he was in for a surprise no matter what came out. The only free spot was between the Oritz twins, and Lazlow shuddered at the idea of being forced to play mediator between them if they started arguing. The dinner he'd organised last year had ended with the president wiping dessert from his suit following the twins' disagreement.

"You look like absolute shit," Bastian said in place of a greeting. Lazlow hummed as he sank into his seat. Barely even a second later he was accosted by a waiter demanding he choose his drink.

"I haven't slept in…" Lazlow counted the days in his head. He hadn't really been keeping track of how long he'd been awake, either. He just knew he'd been busy nonstop, regardless of how often the sun would rise before his eyes. "God. I just haven't slept."

"Polka might have something for that," Antigone mused. Bastian hummed in agreement.

"They have a lot of things for a lot of things."

"No offense to Polka," Lazlow said, casting a quick glance at the person in question, "but I'd trust Cordelia's tonics before I self-medicated."

Bastian smiled wryly. "Attaboy."

The waiter returned with his wine, and now Lazlow could officially relax. No more decisions to be made, especially if the menu was pre-selected. He looked up and down the table, at the faces he recognised and the ones he knew for a fact were new. No one ever sat in order of District at these dinners. Everyone always had something to say about their follow Victors, but this year seemed to be the most agreeable bunch.

Lazlow fiddled with a fork while Antigone sipped at her wine. Directly across from her was Capable King, the senior mentor for One; from the way Capable's brows waggled once Antigone lowered her wine, Lazlow could guess what kind of "hidden" messages the women were sending each other. He wasn't one to keep up with Victor gossip, but he was pretty sure they were engaged now? He couldn't say for sure.

Before he could even think of a question to ask, Bastian was talking to him again. "We're four short this year. Outer Districts are struggling at this point."

Lazlow wrinkled his nose. "They're always struggling. They're not Careers like the fortunate few."

Bastian shrugged. He probably agreed with Lazlow on that much, otherwise Lazlow would've been subject to a competition to prove who was right. And he really didn't have the energy for a competition right now. Or ever. Especially against an Oritz.

In a poor attempt to change the subject, Lazlow blurted out, "Thoughts on the other mentors?"

A snort came from Antigone. Bastian glared at her over Lazlow's head and cleared his throat.

"_I_," Bastian said, "think we have some interesting people. The tribute who paralyzed Elijah is with him this year."

Bastian gestured to one corner of the table, where a middle-aged man in a wheelchair was being blocked from the rest of the Victors by a young woman with bruised knuckles. Elijah Holloway was infamous for his tormenting of tributes—but Valencia Callaghan, the Victor of the 90th Games, was even more infamous for breaking her mentor's spine the moment she reunited with her team from the arena. Lazlow was both surprised and unsurprised to see her with the man. Elijah never gave up a chance to experience good old schadenfreude and Valencia lived to make sure Elijah never got the chance.

"Huh." Lazlow looked to Antigone. "And your thoughts?"

"Good company," Antigone said immediately. She was grinning across the table at Capable—who, at this point, was obviously listening in on the conversation. Capable King was always someone the others watched their words around, if only because of the reputation she'd garnered those first few years following her victory. Usurping a trained Career with zero training yourself and winning through sheer luck wasn't exactly approved of in One. "The fresh faces are interesting. Don't get too close to Bishop, though—Pan's bleeding heart has him acting like a papa bear."

The mentors from Seven were an odd pair, Lazlow thought. He knew Pan Mazur well enough. The man was basically Seven's own version of bigfoot, and Lazlow was pretty sure he only ever came out of the woods for mentoring. A lot of other Victors from Seven related Pan to more of a concept than a person with how distant he was. And Bishop…

Lazlow couldn't bring himself to even stare at Bishop Cruz for more than a few seconds. He knew Bishop wasn't in the best of situations, his family taking advantage of his allowance and lifestyle to benefit his other siblings, but this was horrific to see in person. He was thinner than he should've been, bruised wherever his suit couldn't hide skin, and he was shaking like a leaf every time he made eye contact with the other mentors.

Even odder than Pan and Bishop being present, however, was their latest Victor talking in hushed whispers with Pan. Gilgamesh Aksoy had abandoned his fellow Careers in favour of the man from Seven, and Lazlow couldn't for the life of him figure out _why_. Everything he knew about Gil suggested he'd never be caught dead with such a scraggly man, and his need for luxury would've demanded he stay by Capable's side so he wouldn't suffer the common withdrawals of One citizens among the little people. Lazlow knew he'd only just won last year, but he was popular enough that even Lazlow wasn't allowed to miss any developments of Gil's post-Games journey.

He squinted as he sipped his wine. The wine tasted foul.

"Don't worry about Gil," Capable told him. Lazlow set down his glass and turned his full attention to her. They never spoke much to begin with, but Capable was much like Gil—all attention had to be on her when she addressed you. "He's just anxious about his beau. They made plans to meet after the Games this year."

Lazlow raised a brow. "That's a while away," he said.

"Yes, but the longer they wait, the most intense the media gets." Capable took a sip of her wine, finishing off her first glass. "Tragic when your only gimmick was a ripoff of the Twelve duo."

Gil clearly heard her, because his voice danced down the table like he was glad for the chance to throw insults. "Even more tragic when your only gimmick was being a thief."

"A thief who helped you win," Capable called back.

"A thief whose greatest talent is being stupid lucky."

"Are we arguing?" Elijah gleefully jumped into the conversation. "Who's arguing?"

The doors to the kitchen opened, and Lazlow's stomach sank. It was like the staff were arming the Victors now that the Careers were at each other's throats. No matter how playful they were, they always found a way to escalate their banter into something violent. At least this time the president had opted out of dinner, avoiding any chances of being covered in clam chowder a second time.

Lazlow stared down at the beef wellington in front of him. Yeah, this was something he would've chosen ahead of time. He'd definitely made the right call with that.

There was silence for all of ten seconds, only cutlery scraping on porcelain plates, before a calmer conversation started up again. The Careers, at the very least, always had tributes to compare ahead of time.

Cordelia Montague, now more well known for being a holistic doctor than a Victor, proposed the question: "Will Two's drought end this year?"

Both Oritz twins groaned, Bastian lolling his head back over his chair and Antigone holding her face in her hands.

That was a no, if Lazlow ever heard one.

"We've reached the cause of it," Bastian reasoned. Antigone shook her head, but let him speak regardless. "Every year we fizzled out in the bloodbath, the same student turned down the opportunity and handed volunteering to the runner up."

"Bastian thinks it's superstition," Antigone groaned. Claire Blake, one of the Victors from Nine, perked up at the mention of superstition. "He thinks that because she won't go into the arena, Two's karma is all jacked up. I think they're just shit students."

"The tributes from Two _were_ pretty shit last year," Gil agreed.

"Well what about Four's volunteers? They can't be all that better than ours."

Caspian Reid, the other mentor for Four, tensed at the jab. He downed all his wine in one gulp, a clear sign that Cordelia would be alone in dealing with the other Careers.

"That's a secret," she decided. "We don't have the luxury of playing our full hand before they officially volunteer."

Well, she had a point. Four may have been just as much a Career District as the others, but they weren't exactly as successful as One and Two. Except, Lazlow thought with a grin, in recent years. He liked some of the Victors from Two, but God it was too ironic seeing them have a drought—seeing them lose both tributes during the bloodbath, of all times.

Lorre Hart, just a conniving as Capable, chose that moment to drop a bombshell: "I heard Ten has a tribute picked out already, too."

All eyes jumped from Lorre, all the way down the other end of the table to Roy Willard. He was one of the solo mentors, the pressure twice as heavy on his shoulders. Judging by the annoyed glare he sent to Lorre, Lazlow could very easily guess that this was news Roy wanted to stay secret.

The man ran a hand through his hair and let out a long-suffering sigh. "It's a complicated story," he said slowly. A few chins rested on pairs of hands. Using the excuse of complications always got the Victors eager for more. "I would prefer if I discussed this with Lazlow in private later so he can pass the information onto the president."

Polka Lowenthal, who Lazlow had begun the night joking about, made their own joke at his expense. "Well now we know who to bother after dinner!"

"Let's not this year. He's got enough on his plate as it is."

His saviour was Quincey Hyde—mayor of District Eleven, as much as the man loathed the job. He was one of the few who was just as overworked as Lazlow around this time of year, so it made sense that he'd step in before the hyenas got a whiff of his scent. Much like Roy, he was mentoring solo this year. Unlike Roy, mentoring was a sort of mini vacation for Quincey where the most he had to worry about were two children instead of hundreds.

Another victor, older than Quincey, agreed with leaving Lazlow be. Hal Hanover was a pushover, but he still cared about others' wellbeings above all else. He was most comfortable with other Victors, anyway, so as long as one shared the same views as him he'd be able to speak his mind. Hal had never mentored before this year, though; whatever opinions he did have were cheap in the eyes of more experienced mentors, even if he'd scored a win for Three thirty years ago.

"I don't mind discussing it," Lazlow said. A few grins were aimed at him. "However, I do think it should wait until after the reapings conclude. Any further discussion outside of Mr. Willard and myself would just be gossip."

"Prude," Lorre muttered into her glass.

After being silent the whole time, Alice Gardner—Hal's partner in mentoring Three's tributes—finally said something half of the room was already thinking: "Does it matter who the kid is? They're still gonna get the shit kicked out of them by a Career."

"Shit kicked or not," Elijah mused, "a little drama always makes for the best appetiser."

Valencia reached across the table for a salt shaker. She unscrewed the lid and dumped all the contents onto Elijah's meal without so much as looking at him. All the while, Elijah smiled sweetly at her like she'd just done something overly endearing.

He was a weird man. Lazlow was glad he never had to sit next to him any time they held these dinners.

Lazlow tried to change the subject again. He was much more successful than his first attempt. "So, Mr. Somers," he said, looking for the face of one of Six's mentors, "any new songs?"

Jonathan Somers shrugged. Had anyone else asked, he would've at least said something; but Lazlow tended to forget at these dinners that he wasn't in the same circle as the Victors. For one, Jonathan wasn't at risk of being flogged if he admitted out loud that his nonsense lyrics were anti-Games statements in Pig Latin to other Victors. Lazlow was very well aware how easy it was to translate those lyrics, but the man was still cautious about it.

He stabbed a piece of salad with his fork and glared at it. "It rhymes no matter what I put in there," Jonathan amended. "So I'm not stuck in a rut or anything."

It didn't answer Lazlow's question, but it was an answer. He'd take what he could get.

And then Jonathan's face changed, his expression perking up as he looked across the table at Thea Arlovskaya. She was beloved in Nine for the festival she'd founded, and even the other Districts had begun to show adoration for her efforts.

"Say, Thea, did you still want music at this year's…?"

Thea nodded. "It'd be lovely, Jon. I don't know if we can get permission for you to travel, but I can try convince the president to allow a live broadcast from your home."

"Groovy. I'll get my brother to make sure we're ready for practice once the Games end."

The hand of a younger Victor raised slowly up in the air. "Thea, do you want any flowers?"

Thea looked at Twelve's only remaining Victor, D'Eon Miller, with a smile so warm that it could melt ice. "I looked into the ones you're fond of," Thea said. "They're the perfect kind of flower for the event, D'Eon. I'll ask for a shipment to be delivered the night before."

D'Eon looked as though she'd just been given a birthday gift early. She tucked into the rest of her dinner as fast as she could, all of a sudden excited to get the Games over and done with so she could send Thea her flowers.

Lazlow didn't even have the energy to be offended at how differently the outer District Victors treated him compared to each other. Not only was he used to it by now, but more than anything it gave him a few less people to worry about. The more he got to know the Victors, he'd found, the more distracted he got from work with news of their daily lives. And with everything going on for the 95th Games, Lazlow _really_ didn't want to miss any work over trivial news.

Still, sometimes being let in on the trivial news felt nice.

Bastian nudged him with his elbow. Lazlow looked up from his food with wide eyes.

"Since you haven't slept in so long," Bastian declared loudly, demanding the attention of everyone at the table, "why don't you give us veterans a hint for what's to come? Surely the Head Gamemaker can do that much if he's been run this ragged."

Lazlow couldn't help it. He coughed up a laugh, shaking his head with a smile.

"Sorry, Mr. Oritz," he said, "but I think I'll follow District Four's example and refrain from showing my full hand."

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**No close date for subs, I'm just winging it and picking tributes I really wanna use for the spots they're subbed to. No clue who I'll introduce in the next chapter, but look forward to two (or three) of the little shits listed on my profile appearing ASAP.**


	2. Cosmic Love

**Eyyy first of my characters' intros. I decided to do just two because pairing characters thematically had too many options dhgskf**

**Also yeah, these chapters are gonna be song titles. This one is taken from the Florence + the Machine song of the same name. Lemme know what you think of these three, and we'll be back in however long with the other three!**

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**01 - Cosmic Love**

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**Idris Eiluned - 17 - District 1**

_Night before reapings_

"We should be friends with volunteers more often."

"You're a mooch."

"I know, right? Totally shameless of me."

This wasn't an unusual sight. In fact, it was a welcomed one. Whenever all four of them gathered together to celebrate something, be it Titan's progress in his clothing line or Dior's latest victory at a singing contest, they could drop all pretenses and truly, earnestly relax. They were all gathered at the small table, the large house vacated to celebrate their friend's eventual farewell and efforts so far. Each one had a specially made dessert in front of them, and beyond those culinary artworks was the centrepiece towering above them: The croquembouche.

Pink-dyed profiteroles, strawberry-flavoured macarons, teardrop meringues. The large cone dessert was Idris's best work yet, and despite the crass way Laurent had expressed it, they knew he was proud of their efforts tonight.

"How long did this take you?" Titan asked. He was glancing between his apple galette and the croquembouche eagerly. Both he and Dior were lost on where to start digging in. "I know for a fact some of this stuff had to be started this morning."

Idris grinned at him. They picked a random flan on their plate and began digging in. "Then you know it took me at least all day," they said.

There was a sound of approval from across the table. Idris leaned around the croquembouche to see Laurent clutching his chest and looking on the verge of tears. "You made the grasshopper tart," he whimpered. The pastel green tart in front of him would be gone in minutes, Idris thought, and that was exactly the reaction they were hoping for.

Rather than spend their final night at home in the Academy among their fellow competitors, as well as the other soon-to-be tribute One had chosen this year, Idris had elected for a smaller, more personal affair. It was a big moment—maybe a bit bigger than a birthday, but big nonetheless—and none of their friends were enrolled in the Academy to begin with. They all had their own aspirations, but they were also the most supportive of Idris when compared to even their classmates at the Academy. Where others would compete and compare, resorting to the most juvenile of insults that long since had no effect on Idris, their friends would encourage and cheer for them. So it was only natural that Idris wanted to spend their last night with people they enjoyed being around.

The trio would've crashed the Academy's party anyway, if Idris had been forced to stay with their partner. That was oddly reassuring despite the consequences that would follow.

Titan hummed at Idris to get their attention. His mouth was full of both croquembouche and apple galette. As soon as he could speak, he asked, "Have you seen the new poster Open Arms made?"

"Oh! They used your designs for this one, right?" Dior beamed at Titan. He nodded back at her, puffing out his chest proudly.

"The internship program really paid off," he said. "I even got to make an outfit for Lapin—"

Laurent choked on his grasshopper tart. "You made an outfit for _Lapin Lucius_!?"

"He's a very nice person."

"Titan!" Laurent jumped from his seat and lunged across the table. He gripped the taller boy by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. Dior and Idris could only laugh at the display, but Titan was more than a little distressed by the burst of energy. "You made an outfit for _the_ _face of District One_! The one voted 'Most Popular Escort', like, his _whole_ career!"

"He sure did," Idris chuckled. They continued digging into their flan while the show went on.

Titan shoved Laurent off of him, one hand forcing back Laurent by the chin. "Oh my God, step off!"

"He's congratulating you," Dior said helpfully.

"He's getting his booze breath in my face, is what he's doing!"

Dior shrugged at him. She turned to Idris and said, "So _have_ you seen the poster?"

First of their half-dozen flans finished, Idris nodded. "It's not our best poster, but that's just because the slogan was cheesy. Titan's design made it pop."

Laurent was finally shoved off of Titan in full. He crashed back into his seat, still yelling about Lapin's achievements. Titan stuffed a profiterole into the smaller boy's mouth to shut him up.

With Laurent distracted, Titan rose to his feet and posed dramatically. "'Idris Eiluned'," he recited, quoting the poster verbatim. "'From self-perceived zero to Academy-adored hero. Watch the face of _Open Arms_ compete in this year's Hunger Games!'"

Idris added in a whisper, "'All donations to _Open Arms_ during the Games will go to supporting our volunteer in the arena.'"

"Pure gouda," Dior said. Titan and Idris could only agree. "And did they just ignore the part where, like, the kids who caused you to seek out Open Arms are competing against you? I get it if they're making a dig at how they treated you, but that'd be a bit petty for a non-profit organisation…"

"They aren't exactly a celebrity on the level of Victors yet." Laurent had chewed through the profiterole in record time. If he attacked that croquembouche, it'd be gone in half the time it'd take the other three to eat it. "Plus, I like the pettiness. Tell me your dad insisted on keeping that one."

Maddox Eiluned had most certainly pushed for the pettiness to remain. There wasn't much of a point in Idris confirming what Laurent already knew.

Instead, they shrugged and said, "The rest of the Academy is nice. The kids from middle school are just a fraction of the people I met there. Gil was fun to train with last year."

The mere mention of the young Victor set off all three of their friends. Laurent made a comment about "climbing Gil like a tree", Dior gushed over the idea that Idris might've known who Gil's widely speculated significant other was, and Titan declared Gil to be a decent asshole. Idris wasn't sure which one to address first, but they certainly weren't going to have any answers for Dior. Gil kept his lips sealed even in the Academy—not even Capable, his mentor at the time, knew the name of his partner. Idris was far from a gossip, but it made sense that they didn't know if Capable didn't either.

Conversation, at the very least, didn't taper off into gossip about Gilgamesh Aksoy. Despite his comment, Laurent was very eager to keep the focus on Idris for tonight.

"In all seriousness," Laurent said, pointing his fork at Idris, "I'm proud of you. You've come a long way from the state you were in when I first met you."

In all fairness, so had Laurent. Both of them had been hospitalised—for different reasons—and both had been at their lowest points at the time. Idris was proud of their progress, but more than that they were proud of the fact that Laurent had been there with them every step of the way.

"Right back at you," they said. The amount of affection in their tone made Laurent grin—not cheekily or slyly, but in a way that showed his heart was genuinely touched. He never spoke about his own problems much, too proud to call them problems in the first place, but even the smallest of acknowledgement of his efforts was enough to make Laurent happy. That, Idris thought, and a grasshopper tart.

"You two are saps," Dior interrupted. She hadn't meant it in a rude way, the smile on her face devoid of any teasing. "We're proud of you both, too. Our little gang wouldn't be the same without either of you."

The sentimental expression on Laurent's face dropped. "Sorry, what was that? Pure gouda, you say?"

"God, you emotionally constipated drunk." Dior leaned over and swiped some of Laurent's grasshopper tart. "You're lucky we love you for it."

"I've been thinking about that, actually."

For a fleeting moment it looked like panic crossed Laurent's features. The first thing Titan said during this particular exchange, and it was him thinking on something related to their pride? Idris could see why the distress had shown itself, even if for just a second. They glanced at Titan, eager to hear what he had to say.

He looked at everyone around the croquembouche before clearing his throat. From where Idris was sitting, they could see just the barest hints of pink at the tips of his ears.

"So, uh…" Titan stumbled over his words. "We're all on the same page about, like… Being down to date each other if we ever got curious, right?"

Oh. Idris felt a weight lift off of their chest, only to be replaced with a new one. This weight was lighter, at least, and it hadn't been all that long since they'd all discussed the idea of dating each other.

"Yeah?" Laurent prompted him. He'd pushed aside his grasshopper tart—as good a sign as any that Titan had his full attention, and that Laurent was going to be taking this as seriously as possible.

"When Idris comes back, is it okay if we try something? Together?"

"Try dating?" Dior shrugged. "I guess. We do double dates and all that? Who'd go with who?"

Titan cleared his throat again. He bowed his head and mumbled, "All of us. At once. Together."

The trio stared at him in silence. The longer it dragged on, the more anxious Titan appeared. Idris knew what he was proposing, but they just couldn't find the words to tell him they were on board. How could they change the affection they felt for their friends, after all? It would be unfair to love one more than the others. And their dads would be supportive of the relationship—they already thought Idris was in a relationship with at least one of them, anyway.

Laurent shrugged, and his grin returned. "Alright. I'm down. The more, the merrier, right?"

"Yeah," Dior agreed. "And we'd all still get to be together. Just lovey-dovey about it."

Three pairs of eyes landed on Idris then. They couldn't stop their smile even if they tried, the words tumbling out of their mouth like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Coming home to that would be a blessing."

* * *

**Pyrrha Akhilleus - 18 - District 2**

_One month before the reapings_

"_You're a curse on this Academy!_"

The hand struck her cheek long before Pyrrha knew it was coming. Her hands went slack, the lunch tray with her curry tumbling to the floor and making a mess at her feet. Everyone in the cafeteria—_everyone_—paused at the sound of drama coming to a boil.

This wasn't something new for her.

The younger Academy student was screeching at the top of her lungs. Pyrrha tuned the screams out, keeping her composure just like she had every other time; there was shuffling around her, Anemone already jumping to her defense, but it was unnecessary. As Pyrrha righted her head, facing the student again, another slap landed on her cheek.

She knew the name of this student. Hector Gibbs' sister, Laodice—younger sister, Pyrrha thought idly. One of many, though definitely not one that was enrolled in the Academy. This still wasn't new, though. Over the last few years, scorn from the families of tributes was something Pyrrha would experience when the Games crept closer and closer.

Some classmates were already pulling Laodice away from Pyrrha. She screeched and thrashed about, and Pyrrha didn't tune back into the scuffle until the clattering of metal against the floor echoed through the room.

"_You should've died instead of them!_" Laodice was screaming. Spit was flying across the distance, landing just shy of Pyrrha's feet. Between them was a knife—not from the cafeteria, but from someone's home. Large and smooth, the handle faded from constant use. Pyrrha's stomach fell when she looked back up at Laodice. There was a small cut on her hand from the knife, probably thanks to everyone dogpiling her and forcing her to drop it. "_If you won't die in the arena instead of them, you can die by my hand!_"

Anemone stepped past Pyrrha. Pyrrha reached for her, voice caught in her throat, but she wasn't fast enough. Anemone clenched her fist and hit Laodice square in the face with it; Laodice's head rocked back, and then it dropped forward limply. Her nose was bleeding heavily as the students carried the unconscious Laodice to the nearest teacher.

"Ballsy, I'll give her that much," Anemone grunted. She sneered down at the knife on the ground. "Still an embarrassment though."

"You didn't need to hit her," Pyrrha said. Ever so slowly the cafeteria returned to normal, acting as though Laodice hadn't even attempted to stab Pyrrha just now. It was just another day for Two's Academy.

Anemone shrugged. She pulled napkins from her pocket and handed a few to Pyrrha. "I kinda did, yeah. Self-defense is the first thing we learned, remember?"

"She was detained."

"By the kid who jarred his wrist not even three weeks ago and the junior who still flinches when someone throws a punch at her." Anemone clicked her tongue. She stepped over the mess of curry on the floor and sat down at the bench Pyrrha had been aiming to sit at. "Just because she's frantic doesn't mean she wouldn't have broken free. Now if _I_ was the one holding her back…"

Pyrrha wiped what little curry had landed on her with a frown. There was no need for Anemone to act so cocky about this. True, Laodice had a fair chance to break free based on who was holding her back, but gloating when Pyrrha could've been stabbed was in poor taste, even for Anemone. Not that Pyrrha could ever convince her of that fact. Anemone was as proud as any other Academy student.

She stared on at the door Laodice was dragged through. Now the trainers were involved, not just regular staff, and Pyrrha was far from mistaken when she saw the wary glances thrown back her way.

Top of the Academy for four years—not just her class, the _whole Academy_—and everyone was slowly turning against her for declining to volunteer. She always gave away the spots to the girl who was top of the seniors, and now she was being blamed for their deaths.

Pyrrha sat down next to Anemone and softly planted her face on the table. Sure, they all died in the bloodbath every year since she rose to the top, but it wasn't like Pyrrha _personally_ killed them! All this superstition was driving her up the wall, both at home and at the Academy; was it too much to ask for just one day without tension in the air? Everyone was so desperate to pin the blame on something—on someone—that the person they'd lauded became the subject of so much discourse. So much _exhaustion_.

"Hey, come on." Anemone nudged her playfully. "You're not seriously stressed over a scrub like her, are you? She's just jealous her stupid brother wasn't up to your level."

And then there was the praise, just as toxic as the scorn. If people weren't tearing Pyrrha down from the pedestal they'd placed her upon, they were dragging her back up with chains embedded deep in her skin. It was always the same—Pyrrha was too great to be stressed over normal citizens! Pyrrha was just better than all their dead family members, guys! It wasn't Pyrrha's fault they all let themselves disgrace District Two by dying in the bloodbath all the time!

She ground her teeth together and folded her arms over her head. Her hair was getting too long; she'd have to get Anemone's mother to trim it by the time the reapings began.

"Anemone," she sighed. The girl in question groaned. Of course she would groan. Whenever Pyrrha tried to explain this stuff in simple terms, Anemone would act like she was paying her "haters" too much mind. Never mind the fact that these haters had lost precious siblings and children and needed _something_ to explain it. "I'm not comfortable comparing past tributes to me."

"Comparing them to you would be a generosity," Anemone grumbled. Pyrrha's fingers tugged at her hair. Anemone didn't know better, she told herself. Anemone was raised on the same ideals as every other Academy student. She didn't know better.

"An—"

"God, do you need to stress-fight? I'm telling you now, you're gonna mop the floor with me anyway. Go teach Hector's sister a lesson if you need to vent it."

"I don't need to vent—"

"Then why the sulking?" Anemone shifted, probably looking over her shoulder. "Oh! You sad about the curry?"

She lied through her teeth, "Yeah. I was hanging out for it today."

Anemone gave her shoulder a firm smack—a friendly gesture in her eyes, but Pyrrha had a very low tolerance for being hit over the course of a few minutes. "Tell you what," Anemone said, "I'll grab you a new serving and bring it to you after the teacher's done."

Pyrrha's head shot up. She was about to ask Anemone to repeat herself, but the voice of an Academy trainer broke through their conversation. He was behind Pyrrha, and his tone was less than friendly. Anemone fled quicker than Pyrrha had ever seen her. For all the haughtiness she showed against her peers, Anemone's spine turned to slush when it came to their teachers.

Though she'd never admit it aloud, the teacher just gave her a much needed break from Anemone's misguided views.

Pyrrha rose from her seat and greeted the trainer. He taught co-ed classes, but he'd only just started teaching this year. Even before he'd met Pyrrha he'd had high expectations of her—probably thanks to the girls' teachers bragging about having a prodigy in their classes. He would be the one to take over teaching leading up to the Games, making sure everyone was aware of each others' weaknesses more than their own strengths.

The teacher—she was sure his name was Saturn, or something else astrology-based—waited until Anemone was out of an earshot. He wasn't fussed about the other students, and they didn't seem fussed about him. Much like a family member attacking Pyrrha around this time of year, teachers would also flock to her in attempts to convince her to volunteer.

This was nothing new.

Saturn gestured for Pyrrha to sit back down. He joined her at the table, deftly avoiding the curry behind their bench.

"The Gibbs family will be notified of Laodice's actions," he started. Pyrrha nodded. "I assume you're well aware what caused her to act this way."

"Hector," Pyrrha said. Saturn seemed to pause. The way his face changed—the furrowed brows, the confused look—made it very clear he expected a different answer from her.

"Partly." Saturn folded his hands on top of each other. Pyrrha stared at him blankly. She tried not to let her dismay seep into her expression, but even she had her limits. Saturn seemed to be realising this as well, the man unfolding his hands and clearing his throat at her tired gaze. "I know you're not… fond of your position, Pyrrha."

She hoped her face wasn't telling him that. The last thing she needed was a teacher mistaking her exhaustion and stress for laziness.

"But with the skills you've honed and your rank among the whole Academy," he went on, choosing his words as carefully as possible, "you have to understand that a responsibility—an expectation—is put upon you in exchange for them."

"Yes, sir," she mumbled.

He paused. Pyrrha watched him glance around the room, his eyes landing on Anemone as she finally reached the line for the curry. Saturn sucked in a deep breath.

"Are you afraid, Pyrrha?"

The question caught her off guard. It was always something else—_are you unmotivated, are you ignoring your talent, are you doing this to spite us_. She was far from scared, but how many times had someone even thought to ask her that? To ask without the intent of mocking her?

Pyrrha shook her head. "I'm not, sir," she said. Saturn waited for her to continue. No one else ever waited for her to explain herself, either. "I just… How do I know I'm ready? What if I'm not good enough yet?"

She could see the words slowly sinking in. Saturn stared at her, his expression softening, until finally he seemed to understand _what_ the issue was. Pyrrha wouldn't admit out loud that she was surprised at how quickly he'd changed his tune from stern teacher to supportive confidant. He was new—he had every other teacher and rumours about Pyrrha painting a picture for him.

Saturn smiled at her. She could see the sympathy in his expression, but just beneath the surface there was something else… Mischief? A scheme?

"We have a month to make sure, right?" he said. Pyrrha glanced over at Anemone again. She was already walking back with more curry, her nose pinched like it was the foulest thing to assault her senses. "How about I give you a proper panel to determine how ready you are this year?"

Pyrrha blinked at him. A proper panel? What more could be provide aside from the judgements her teachers had already made?

Saturn rose from the bench. He gave Pyrrha a wink as Anemone finally ventured close enough for the stern facade to sneak back into his posture.

"Five AM. Training Room Twelve. I expect you to be punctual, Akhilleus."

* * *

**Shuu Desrosiers - 18 - District 7**

_One year before the reapings_

It was just shy of five in the morning when he heard shuffling outside his door. Shuu froze on the spot, his shadow no doubt cast through the crack in the door by his lamp, but part of him still held on to hope that the illusion of being asleep would remain.

Himawari practically slammed Shuu's door open. There were heavy bags under her eyes, her hair no longer in a neat bun but tied loosely around her head.

Himawari Desrosiers was _not_ happy to see her little brother awake.

"Tell me you slept," was the first thing out of her mouth. Shuu instantly felt his cheeks burn. His sister's gaze moved from him to his bed. From there, where all manner of clothes were on display, she looked to his open drawers and closet door. "_Shuu_…"

"I—I was too nervous!" he insisted. Himawari threw her hands up and turned on her heel in an instant.

"You'd better not take a nap in the middle of work, young man!" she called back to him. Himawari stormed back in the direction of her room. Unlike Shuu, she actually did need to be awake at this hour—for work, at least.

Shuu grabbed clothes from his bed at random and clambered after her. "While you're awake!" he shouted. One of the pairs of underwear fell from his grip. Shuu slipped on it without fail, a rain of fabric descending upon him as he crashed into the hallway. "Help me pick something!"

He could see her pause. Himawari planted her hands on her hips. "I don't have time for this," she grumbled. Shuu picked up the clothes one by one as she looked over her shoulder at him. "Does it matter what you wear? How do you even know he'll see you from on top of that stage?"

"He will! We came up with a way for him to know it's me—he'll see me, Himawari."

"What, that heavy block of gold he calls an earring?" Himawari turned around to face him fully.

"No, I just have to—"

He couldn't tell if it was exhaustion that caused her to snap, or if he truly was going overboard with his panic over the situation, but Himawari reached her tipping point earlier than usual. It stung more than usual, too, Shuu's heart sinking at the mere possibility of her even saying such a thing to his face. "Then why don't you just go and ask Dad for help!? He's all about making a good impression and being _perfect!_"

It hurt. It well and truly hurt. Himawari must've seen in it Shuu's eyes, in the way his arms went limp and his clothes dropped to the floor again. She backtracked, stammered as she approached again. Shuu just rose to his feet and sped back into his room, locking his door behind him.

It was just shy of ten when someone knocked on his door. He knew it wasn't Himawari—she was expected at work before six—but he still couldn't bring himself to answer. As exciting as today was, as much as he'd looked forward to it ever since he was told there would be a visit, the frustrated jab had soured the excitement considerably.

Shuu's refusal to answer didn't deter his visitor, though. It never did, when it came to Quill. Quill couldn't walk away from an issue without some kind of resolution being found, even if it killed him.

Another knock. This time Quill called out to Shuu through the door. "If it helps any, the lightning bolt briefs won't do you any favours if you two get some alone time."

Shuu buried his face in his hands. Not that it did much, already being under his blankets and all. "I didn't ask!" he called back.

Quill snorted. "A very unsunny sunflower said you did."

Shuu didn't answer. He knew Himawari didn't mean what she'd said—but they were as stubborn as each other, and he wouldn't budge his sulking until she budged through her guilt.

Yet another knock. This time Quill waited before he spoke. "C'mon, kiddo. Come out and I'll see what we can make for brunch. We want this rich bitch to know he got lucky landing you."

Shuu snorted back at him. He did smile, though; if anyone had a way with words in this damn household, it was Quill Ashford. They may not have been the most eloquent of words, granted, but they did the job. Maybe with a little less padding.

He rolled off the bed, taking his blankets with him. He unlocked his door, and Quill was kind enough to wait for him to step back before letting himself in.

"Don't tell Himawari," he said, "but I pulled an all-nighter worrying about my hair for our first date, too."

Quill carried the pile of clothes back into Shuu's room. As he dumped them on the bed, Shuu dryly told him, "Unlike you, I didn't seriously consider a pompadour."

"A pompadour your sister was foolish enough to get engaged to. Now walk me through this. We got, like, two hours before we have to start moving for the Square."

It was just shy of eleven by the time they settled on something acceptable. Shuu checked his reflection for what must've been the sixth time since Quill left the room to get food. He pushed down any stray hairs, flicked fluff off of his cardigan, felt his ear for the brick of an earring he'd been sent in the mail months ago. He had to make sure it was there, on display for his boyfriend to see. It was his gift to Shuu, a momento to hold onto until they could meet in person.

Shuu's heart was leaping all over the place. Any faster, any harder, and it'd burst out of his chest and ricochet off the walls. He hadn't thought it possible when they'd started a relationship—long-distance, especially between Districts, was practically unheard of—but the random letter addressed to his family in the mail, written in what was obviously an elementary schooler's handwriting, was proof enough that this was really happening. And when they'd stayed in that relationship for a year, Shuu hadn't even considered the possibility of them meeting in real life.

Yet here he was, dressed up in his Sunday best as the minutes ticked by. How long until he arrived in Seven, he wondered? We he nervous too? Was he worried about impressing Shuu too? Shuu snorted, dismissing the thought in an instant. Of course not, he was far too self-assured and confident to worry about letting down Shuu. Not that Shuu could ever be let down by him to begin with.

He pushed his hair behind his ear, displaying the earring proper now. This felt more comfortable, matched the short ponytail Quill had helped him tie his hair into. The bangs on one side of his head still framed his face, still looked fashionable, and the earring was out in the open for his one and only to see, even from afar. Now he just needed something to hold the hair in place…

Quill called him to the kitchen. Shuu clicked his tongue, resorting to licking his hand and smoothing the hair back by force. It'd last an hour, wouldn't it? He wouldn't be moving around too much for the hair to come loose.

It wasn't until after brunch, when they were leaving the house to meet with Himawari in the Square, that his sister's earlier remark spawned a new panic in Shuu. All of Seven would be in the Square at twelve. _All_ of Seven. That included the last people he wanted to see.

Quill fixed Shuu's collar as people around them began heading in the direction of the Square. Shuu knew it wasn't likely that his parents would show up so soon, so close to them, but he still watched the crowd like a hawk for any signs of them. If they so much as saw him, he had to run as fast as he could.

A calloused hand patted his shoulder softly. Shuu looked away from the crowd, his gaze meeting Quill's above him. All he could see was warmth, a declaration that no harm would come to him today.

"Fuck 'em," Quill told him. "Himawari's probably already alerted the Peacekeepers about if they come near you."

"What if we're not near any Peacekeepers?"

Quill grinned. It was the stupid kind of grin. "Then no one can stop me from breaking Mr. Desrosiers' nose, can they?"

As much as he didn't want things to come to that, Shuu still cracked a smile. Every time they went out Quill and Himawari made that same promise—and every time they ever came across their parents, a Peacekeeper was always in the vicinity to stop things from getting nasty. Quill was rich, sure—inherited the house the trio lived in and everything, even personally knew some of the families who drifted towards Peacekeeping—but Himawari had a few friends too. Her shift built the houses those Peacekeepers lived in with their families, tended to the breakages and upgrades and expansions like clockwork.

Shuu's parents scared Shuu. But Himawari and Quill knew people who scared Shuu's parents more.

With that reassurance out of the way, Quill made quick work of guiding Shuu through the crowd safely. Every time he glanced behind them, if only to cover all their bases, Shuu would see a Peacekeeper among the crowd. Not assembling like the residents were, but overseeing the crowd and making sure no accidents happened on their watch.

His parents wouldn't dare approach them, he thought gleefully.

Finally they made it to the Square, twelve on the dot and with Himawari waiting towards the back of the crowd. She was still in her work gear, gloves shoved in her tool belt and her hair still tucked under her cap. Himawari wasted no time joining the duo once she saw them, and Shuu could barely get a word in before she pulled him into a tight hug.

"I'm so sorry," she said into his cardigan. "I didn't mean it. Should never have said it."

Shuu chewed his lip. Was it because of what today meant to him that she apologised so quick?

"I know," he said.

She pulled back and smoothed out his cardigan, ignoring the fact that Quill had already done so when they'd left. "This bastard better notice you today," she growled. "You never dress this nice when we have guests."

"Our guests are lumberjacks who show up half-naked most of the time so they can wrestle in the backyard and compare chest hair."

"I'll tell Matilda you said that."

Shuu looked down at her smugly. "Bold of you to assume I haven't said that to Matilda's face already."

"He called her bigfoot and she took it as a compliment," Quill supplied helpfully.

Himawari gave them both an indignant grunt. She turned on her heel and gestured to the crowd, already so congested that Shuu couldn't even see the stage they were gathered in front of. "Shall we, then?"

They were well into the crowd, out of their parents' sights, when the screens above the stage flickered on. On both displays were this year's tributes, both of whom had taken out the District Two tributes in the bloodbath. They'd made strides for the potential of Seven, but neither of them had won.

Good, Shuu thought. Otherwise his heart couldn't have handled the alternative.

Lapin Lucius, donned in his bunny garb and standing out compared to his sister whenever she graced the stage, walked up to the microphone and read out the usual spiel escorts did following the conclusions of a Hunger Games.

And then Lapin said the words Shuu was dying to hear, ever since he saw the finale on TV: "I present the Victor of the Ninety-Fourth Hunger Games—Gilgamesh Aksoy."

"He won't see him," Himawari stressed to Quill. Shuu was caught between them in an instant, Quill crouching down while Himawari shoved Shuu behind him. It'd been _years_ since the last time someone had held him up on their shoulders—(that was a lie, Matilda had done it just as Shuu called her bigfoot two weeks ago, but he had a good reason to call her that compared to Quill)—and to say he panicked as he ascended was an understatement.

Shuu clung to Quill's curls painfully, heart pounding in his chest as the half-hearted clapping died down. Gil's voice, the speech he had prepared, blared through the speakers.

Despite the crowd between them, the sheer distance that kept Shuu from his immediate notice, he'd never felt closer to Gil before now. The letters, the photos Gil would send, the live feed of the Games—none of it compared to now, seeing the tawny hair in real life and hearing the husk in his voice up close. Others were doing the same as Shuu, getting up on the shoulders of their friends and parents to get a better look, but it didn't bother him.

"How's he gonna know which one is Shuu?" Quill asked Himawari. Shuu could see her shrug from the corner of his eye, but for once today he didn't care. He just didn't want to worry about it—_couldn't_. The fact that Gil was _here_, that Shuu could finally say they'd met in person in some shape or form, made all the stress worth it.

Gil glanced out into the crowd every so often. His eyes passed Shuu a few times, addressing everyone watching him as best he could. It wasn't until the third time their eyes met that Shuu _knew_, that he could die of happiness right on the spot.

Gaze locked on Shuu, Gil pushed his hair behind his ear—the ear that had his other earring clasped in it, taken into the Games has his token and his own reminder of Shuu.

"He knows," Shuu whispered. Quill patted his knee, almost as though proud of Shuu. He couldn't figure out why. It wasn't like Shuu had just walked onstage just now and introduced himself. "He saw me."


	3. Honeythief

**Hello! We have the other three of my tributes here, and we'll be introducing the submitted ones in the following chapters! The chapter title this time around comes from **Honeythief** by **Halou**. Subs are still open for Paradise Lost, and the blog has been updated with pages for accepted tributes so far! I look forward to seeing what you guys think of these three - unlike the last trio, they _won't_ have a chance to win the Games.**

* * *

**02 - Honeythief**

* * *

**Yekaterina Yolkina - 17 - District 5**

_Three months before reapings_

Just a few blocks away. It was just a few blocks away. Everyone else would be at school or working. She could survive _just a few blocks_.

Katja's hands shook at her sides. Despite each and every reassurance she gave herself, all of them more reasonable than the last, anxiety gripped at her heart like a vice. She'd made it this far—she'd put on her most inconspicuous clothes, even with all their paint stains, and she'd made it from her little shack in the backyard to the house she used to call home. The only obstacle left was the front door.

It was a miracle both of her parents had shifts right now. She wouldn't be able to commit to her goal if one of them came down the stairs, only to see their disgrace of a daughter on the verge of a panic attack over opening a damn door. The insult that would be directed at her would've shattered her miniscule courage right then and there. Katja couldn't afford to lose her nerve when her supplies were running low. School had called as well—and if she didn't pick up the assignments herself, who knew how fast her parents would evict her from the property altogether?

Her teeth dug painfully into her lip as she pulled the hood of her sweater over her head. It was far from cold outside, hardly weather necessary for her hoodie, but it gave her a sense of relief. It was one more layer hiding her from the gazes of others, at least. Like an affirmation to herself, to demand there be no going back, Katja pulled the rose-tinted glasses from her pocket and pushed them up her nose. She was ready to combat the harsh light of the sun now—if she backed out, she'd never let herself live it down.

It was the middle of the day in the middle of the week. No one her age was out and about, and most adults were working indoors and keeping things functional. She clutched the handle of her messenger bag tightly, knuckles whiter than normal and arms trembling from the pressure. One step, two, shut the door behind her; and then Katja was out in the wilderness that was District Five, braving the depths that she feared so terribly. It had to have been at least two weeks since she last stepped foot outside the door. No, two and a half? It was hard to keep track of the days when she spent her waking hours in the shack, too busy painting to focus on everyone and everything else. Not that she'd want to, she supposed. Everything was too cruel—everyone much crueller.

Her first, and closest, stop would be the school. Katja peeked at the watch around her wrist, confirming that she wouldn't run into anyone eating their lunch while she stopped by. There were a lot of students she'd rather avoid, but one group in particular always found their way to her whenever she showed up at the wrong time. It was hard to face them. Every time she met the gaze of the ringleader, of the girl who'd ruined her life, a whirlwind of responses overcame Katja. Not once did she ever pick the right one for the situation.

She was sure that wouldn't change if she ran into them today. Katja was incapable of change now, after all.

Her breaths came out in shaky bouts, but she still persevered. Crossed the road, passed the street vendor who _always_ tried to get her attention. Katja pulled her hood lower, almost over her eyes, once the street her school resided in came to view. She couldn't see any students out and about, much less hear the sounds of recess floating through the air. She was in the clear, wasn't she? For once in her life, she was in the clear, right?

Front gate opened, front gate closed. No students in sight. She could see a few heads peeking out windows, ignoring their classes in favour of peeping on her. But they couldn't do anything to her from that far. She couldn't hear them with so much space and glass separating them. She hurried into the front office, heart beating wildly in her chest. She was in the clear. Suddenly the world looked brighter, the air smelled fresher. She was in the clear. She could open the door and confidently say she was here for her assignments—probably wouldn't even bite her tongue! _She was in the clear_—

As soon as she opened the door and took a step inside, her eyes locked with the lone student sitting idly at one of the office chairs. She didn't recognise Katja immediately, expression blank as they stared each other down, but Katja knew that face all too well.

She'd let go of the door in her shock. It swung shut behind her, trapping her in the office with the girl.

A small smile. That idle posture turned more languid, casual, and she rose from her chair to lean on the office counter. "Hey, Red," Mallory drawled.

Katja stayed rooted to the spot. She couldn't move. Her fingers ached, frozen around her bag's strap, and her chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself. She wasn't even sure if she was breathing anymore.

Mallory looked her up and down, almost appraising Katja, as she slowly rested her chin on her hand. "What can I help you with, _babe_?"

She flinched. How cruel, using an endearment Katja had once enjoyed hearing from her lips. No matter how terrible Katja looked, how much she tried to avoid her, Mallory still thought it was all a joke. A hilarious fucking joke.

Katja swallowed thickly. She averted her gaze and tried to mumble, "Wh…"

"What am I doing here?" Mallory shrugged. She smiled ruefully at Katja, and immediately she knew why: This was Mallory's punishment. "I couldn't be trusted to carry out a suspension, so free periods are child labour and everything else is detention. Worth it to see the look on Mr. Chalmer's face when he booted up his computer last week."

She had to get out. She needed her assignments. She had to get away from Mallory. She couldn't afford to fall behind. She wanted to go back to her forget-me-not mural. She would lose the shack entirely if she failed her classes.

Mallory bounced back on her heels as she looked over her shoulder. The smile was gone, replaced with bored professionalism. Her mary janes clicked against the floor with every step she took to one of the desks behind her.

"You get your stuff to do at home now, huh," she said, mostly to herself. Katja watched her with wide eyes. She was choking on her own panic, even as she saw Mallory pull a red manila folder off of the farthest desk. No, she wouldn't tamper with them here, would she? There were cameras in the front office, weren't there? Katja couldn't be _that_ unsafe in here, right? "If I were you I would've skipped all the boring stuff and did whatever I wanted at home."

Mallory sauntered back to the front desk and balanced the folder on one open palm. She stared at Katja like a predator waiting for its prey to take the bait, to let down its guard. In an instant Katja's mind turned into a roulette wheel, a tiny gambler in her head spinning it more and more and screaming all the while. _Take the folder_, the gambler begged. _Take the folder and leave_.

She could practically hear the clicks in her head as Mallory moved the folder back and forth. "Well, what are you waiting for, Red? Come and get it already."

It was hardly a taunt. It couldn't have even counted as a slight. Still, that roulette slowed and the clicks lessened, skimming over a few close results. _Run away. Take the folder. Run away. Take the folder. Run away._

One final click. _Retaliate._

Katja sucked in a deep, silent breath. Mallory waved the folder around again, cooing in an almost sarcastic tone, "C'mon, _babe_, you don't wanna fall behind, do you?"

The words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Her nerve always seemed to spring to life in the worst of moments.

"You're disgusting."

The declaration hung in the air for a few seconds. Mallory wasn't entirely registering them, still smiling at Katja and with her brows raised innocently. Her attempt at bringing Katja over ceased, though, and with the stillness of her hand came the slow realisation of what Katja had called her. That smile, sickly sweet, remained on her face as she tilted her head at Katja. Mallory said nothing. She just stood up to her full height and held the folder properly.

Katja turned on her heel slowly. A trembling hand grabbed the door knob and twisted it.

The shredder roared to life underneath the front desk. Katja could hear her assignments being inserted into it, despite Mallory's voice calling after her, "Better than being a freak like you."

She opened the door and walked out without even looking back. Distantly, in the back of her mind, Katja thought to herself, _At least both of us are self-aware._

Katja felt absolutely zero pride as the door closed behind her. She didn't feel as though she'd won some kind of battle or one-upped Mallory somehow. She still felt anxious. She still felt trapped. She still felt like running away.

So run away, she did.

* * *

**Nox Glass - 15 - District 6**

_Four months before reapings_

There was no way this thing was going to run.

Nox chewed his lip as he leaned back in his chair. His whole morning had been spent working on this damned thing, and so far it felt like he was just pushing against a door meant to be pulled. He'd wracked his brain for solutions, holding back as much as possible from asking his dad for help, but now he was down to his last idea. And it didn't seem to be working, if the lack of an engine roar was anything to go by.

It was his own idea, sure, but Nox was starting to think he'd gotten a bit over his head with how ready he was. Five years, he'd spent helping out in the garage, and he got cocky. Five years wasn't enough to put this pile of junk back into working order—customised and all! He'd need another five more years of experience to do this on his own.

Corrin would probably laugh at the sight. Just a month ago Nox had _insisted_ that he was ready to put the old car—the rusted junk pile that it was at the time—back together and in working order. And now he was struggling to so much as get the engine running, no matter how much he tinkered and triple-checked everything else. Half the time he spent with the broken thing was cleaning its body and discarding any parts beyond repair.

Zero progression whatsoever, in his eyes.

He massaged his leg as he propped it up on the chair in front of him. The weather wasn't doing him any favours, not with the lack of heating in the garage, and the amount of time he spent out here was nearly torture. But he wanted to get this done—he wanted to show Corrin he was ready. Nox may have had trouble with his leg sometimes, but Corrin was down one finger and half his staff. He needed all the help he could get, no matter how much it hurt Nox's leg.

A knock sounded out, echoing in the quiet space of the garage. Nox called out, "Yeah," just in time to hear Corrin open the door.

The smell of coffee was heaven, overpowering the oil and grease that polluted the room. Nox pulled his handkerchief out of his overalls and shuffled his gloves off his hands. As soon as Corrin was close, Nox had cleaned anything extra from his hands and was ready for coffee.

"Need any help yet?" Corrin asked him. Nox scoffed and sipped his coffee.

"No," he lied. "I'm just taking my time. I want it to be perfect."

Corrin huffed a laugh. He looked back at the heap with an almost wistful expression on his face. Automotive work ran in the family, spanning back before even the Dark Days, and there was no doubt that Nox's own project was making Corrin nostalgic. Nox had seen the pictures of everyone's past projects—their first fixes, first custom creations—and it was no secret that Nox had chosen the car he had because of the similarities it had to Corrin's.

"Take your time," Corrin agreed with him. "But don't dawdle. This is meant to help you work on a schedule for someone else's vehicle, too."

Right. Normally they only had a week to repair something, but Nox was fortunate enough to be granted two months. He was repairing it from the ground up, after all.

"I know," he said. He took a longer sip this time as Corrin moved forward, getting a better look at the car. Even if Nox had too much pride to ask, Corrin would give the car a once-over and "suggest" what he would do when he was younger.

Corrin's head ducked down. He turned around and set his coffee on the table behind Nox. "You're done for the day."

"What?" Nox sat up straight. His leg ached, but he refused to show it. "No, there's plenty of daylight—"

"Nox." Corrin turned back around and gave his son's foot, propped up on the chair, a soft shove. It bounced back and forth, but Nox felt none of it. Not even the mould of his boot around his foot. "I did that just a minute ago. You didn't react—you're done for the day."

He pursed his lips. Nox couldn't help the way his eyes drifted to the floor, too ashamed to look at his father.

"I would've been fine," he tried.

Corrin held up his left hand, wiggling the knuckle stump that remained of his middle finger. "We all think that at first," he reminded Nox.

The silence that settled over them was awkward, almost tense. He hated being reminded of his limits, especially with the extra care he had to take with his leg. What Corrin had done to his hand was because of an accident, something preventable no less. Nox's leg… That hadn't been preventable at all. None of them knew the old garage would collapse, much less than Nox would've hurt injured the way he had.

But Corrin was steadfast in his views. He was convinced that if Nox kept going, ignoring the ache in his leg, something worse could happen. But if Nox kept stopping, kept resting so much, then nothing would be done.

Despite his arguments, though, Nox still sighed and set down his coffee. "Help me back into the house, then."

He couldn't even feel his foot touch the ground as Corrin guided him inside. It was maddening, seeing it land and watching it rise again, but never feeling the impact. There was only a dull ache further up his leg, the only reminder he still had one at all.

"What colour are you thinking for it?" Corrin asked. He was back in a better mood, probably hoping to get Nox's mind off of not being able to do anymore work. It was a poor attempt, if he had to be honest. But it was something he hadn't considered yet, either.

"I dunno." Nox was lowered onto the closest couch they got to. The living room wasn't far from the garage—sometimes people who had nothing to do while they waited for their vehicles would relax in there, make themselves a coffee. The cushions felt like clouds underneath his back. "Any suggestions?"

Corrin gave one of the cushions a quick fluffing before he turned back for the garage. Heaven forbid their coffees got cold. "Canary yellow is pretty eye-catching."

"Pretentious," Nox called after him.

Corrin's laugh could be heard through the doorway. A moment later he was back with their coffees, setting them on the small table in front of Nox and sinking into his side of the couch. "Alright, boss, what's a less pretentious colour?"

He'd have to consult the colour swatches they had. But he was truly leaning towards something more… purple.

Nox listed the first colour in the range that came to mind: "Byzantium."

"Making a car for royalty, are we? Should I be letting President Tybolt know that his little truck is under construction?"

"It'll look better than canary yellow," Nox threw back. "Give it a nice polish. Accent it with silver. I'm on to something here, old man."

Corrin laughed again. He reached over and ruffled Nox's strawberry-blond hair despite his son's protests. "You sure are. Promise I'll be the first to see the finished product, yeah?"

Nox snorted. There was no way Corrin _wouldn't _be the first person to see the result of Nox's work.

"I'd be a terrible son if you weren't."

* * *

**Tohora Grimm - 14 - District 10**

_One week before the reapings_

He was a bad son.

This was all his fault somehow. He didn't hide well enough. He let the Bad Men find him. He didn't listen to his mother like he should've. He didn't stay between the walls long enough.

Tohora wasn't good at counting days. He barely remembered when his birthday was supposed to be. Time was such a foreign concept to him—there was only ever inside the walls and outside the walls. There were no _days_. There were no _nights_. It made watching the sun rise and fall from the window of the cell, watching the light fade to familiar darkness, almost surreal. The rest of the world experienced the same kind of blackness he did, and yet it all felt so open. So _bare_.

The cell wasn't small enough. It was far, far too large.

Tohora curled up in the farthest corner he could find, as was his routine now. He hadn't seen his mother for… seven changes in the sky? It felt like an eternity, his one and only source of familiarity torn from his hands without so much as a hint of mercy. He still couldn't figure out how the Bad Men had found out about him. He had a feeling the woman's voice who'd walked through the house not long ago had something to do with it, but how could she have known he was there? Why would she have told on them? His mother always said the world outside was dangerous for children—why had the woman's voice sent the Bad Men after them?

It was starting to get brighter outside now. Whenever that happened, people flocked to the outside and did all manner of things Tohora could only guess at. Sometimes he even heard voices that sounded young, like he was, and his mother's words would echo over and over. It was so dangerous outside. Why were they running around where they could be hurt?

With the light beginning to shine came the arrival of an adult who would watch him. It always scared him, all these Bad Men coming in and staring him down. He didn't like being looked at, didn't like being in plain sight. He couldn't even hide under the small bed in the room—it was bolted to the floor, the opening much more narrow than the hollow walls of his house. Not once did they say anything to him, but whenever they spoke to the other Bad Men, they only said horrible things. More about his mother than him, but Tohora could always tell whenever they referred to him.

The door on the other side of the room opened, a lone adult walking in with a tray of food. Tohora always get fed when the sun came up, but he was never hungry around that time. It was always in the dead of night, when he usually ate at home, that his stomach would begin to ache. And everything they served him… What on earth even was it all? It wasn't like the grains and rice his mother would boil and slip into the walls for him. Some of it was colourful. Some of it smelled sweet. Some of it even melted after a while.

The tray was slid through the small opening of the bars, and then the Bad Man's voice muttered, "Jesus. You're a teenager. I thought you were just a little kid."

Tohora stared at the tray. Browned slices of bread, a rare treat from his mother, and big yellow blobs with white underneath them. To the side, there were brown strips of what smelled like meat—they were very glossy, he noted with wide eyes.

The Bad Man walked out of the room, only to come back in again with another tray. He sat down at the cell bars and set the tray down, and with a small pronged stick he began to poke at his own similar meal.

"How're you holding up, kid?" he asked. Tohora stared at him. He blinked after a few seconds, then looked back down at the food. The Bad Man followed his gaze, holding the pronged stick and the brown meat just a short distance from his mouth. "You're allowed to eat it. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

Breakfast? Was that what he was being given when the light shone through the window? Something called breakfast?

Tohora slowly uncurled himself. He kept low to the floor, crawling ever so slowly towards the tray. He looked up at the Bad Man as he did, and when his fingers brushed against the cold metal he quickly snatched it back.

The Bad Man gave him the same look of pity he'd catch his mother giving him.

"I won't take it from you," he said. Tohora didn't believe him. They'd already taken his mother from him. Why not food as well? "Wait, shit, right. You can't eat that like finger food."

And then he slid something else through the gap—a pronged stick like his own, but white and not as shiny, and a sharp stick that was jagged at one side.

"You, uh…" The Bad Man stopped eating. "You know how to use those?"

Tohora shook his head before he could stop himself.

"Okay…" He held up the pronged one. "This is a fork. You can pick stuff up with it." The Bad Man poked at another strip of meat with it. It came up with the fork easily. "See? You try it with yours."

He did. His hand shook as he did, the fork needing just a bit of pressure to pick up the meat, but once it went through he felt his heart leap into his throat. The Bad Man had eaten the meat right off the fork earlier—so Tohora did the same. A juicy, fatty taste filled his mouth; it was like nothing he'd ever tasted before. And they were giving it to him for breakfast? If breakfast tasted this good, it really must have been the most important meal of the day.

The other one—the knife—came soon after. The Bad Man, considerably less bad than Tohora assumed, poked at one of the yellow domes on his toast with it. Yellow ooze spilled out and onto the white underneath, and then over the toast. The Bad Man told him that, when you poked a corner of the bread and the white sheet with the fork, you could cut a piece off the with knife to fit into your mouth. He demonstrated for Tohora, removing the corner in just two movements of the knife, and popped it in his mouth with a smile.

Tohora had less luck. He all but tore apart the white underneath the yellow dome, and the ooze went all over his tray. It got on his meat, and his good mood deflated when he picked up the strip and watched the yellow ooze drip back onto the tray.

"You can still eat it," the Bad Man told him. He picked up his last strip of meat and dipped it into the yellow ooze. "A lot of people like their bacon with some yolk on it."

Tohora looked back at him. "Y—Yalk?"

"_Yolk_. That's what the yellow part is. And this—" He held the strip of meat up on display. "—is bacon."

Bacon and yolk with toast. He wondered if everyone ate this for breakfast. He wondered why his mother never gave it to him.

The Bad Man watched him as he continued to eat. Tohora couldn't fit it all in—it was a bigger serving than he was used to—but it definitely left him feeling like he'd eaten his fill. He wasn't even sure if he'd need to eat again after this. Maybe he wouldn't wake up with a sore stomach now.

The Bad Man pointed to Tohora's tray. Panic rose in his chest, like he knew this was too good to be true, but the soft voice was still present. "Do you want me to bring the rest back later? I can make it warm again. Or do you want something else?"

Tohora looked at him with wide eyes. "I… I don't know…"

"Then you can decide later. How's that sound?"

He didn't like it. He didn't know why the food had to be taken away in order to have later. He didn't know how the Bad Man would make it warm again. He didn't even know what else there was to eat.

"Tohora."

He jumped. He scurried back to the corner of the cell in a heartbeat. "H—How do you know my name?"

The Bad Man raised his hands in a non-threatening motion. "It's okay. Your ma told me. Can I call you Tohora?"

Slowly he nodded.

"You can call me Roy, if you want," the Bad Man—no, Roy—went on. He lowered his hands again and sat back, poking at the rest of his breakfast with the fork. "Tohora, did your ma always hide you in the walls?"

Tohora nodded again, much slower this time. "She said it's not safe for kids."

Roy pursed his lips. He hung his head and ran a hand through his hair. "She wasn't wrong…"

"T—Then why did I get taken away?"

The look Roy gave him was one he didn't recognise. It was like he wanted to say something, but couldn't even bring himself to. He spoke, regardless. "Did your ma say why it wasn't safe?"

Tohora shook his head. He'd never asked. If his mother said it wasn't safe, why would he question her? She kept him away from the Bad Men.

"There's…" Roy's face scrunched up. He looked at Tohora, and he shook his head. "It _is_ dangerous for kids. But not where we are right now. This is the safest place you can be almost all year."

The safest place he could be in between birthdays. Tohora nodded. So he didn't need to be in the walls, then? Or was his mother still on the right track with her decision? Mother knew best, after all.

"Tohora, we have this thing we do once a year. We don't do it by choice—our leader makes us do it." Roy's hand holding the fork began to shake. "_I_ had to do it when I was younger. And you… You were supposed to be eligible for it when you turned twelve, like everyone else. But your ma hid you from our leader."

"But I'm…" Tohora counted in his head for a few seconds. "Fourteen."

Roy nodded. He had a pained look on his face now. "Yeah. That's why people got angry. Your ma broke the rules, Tohora. Because you missed the last two years of the… _event_… everyone else wants to protect their kids more than ever. They want you to go in their place to the—" He choked on his words, almost like saying it was wrong for him. "—the _event_."

"I wanna go home."

"I know. I know. All of the kids who go want to go back home. _I_ wanted to come back home. But I had to work for it first."

Tohora wasn't liking the sound of this. His mother was right—this event she'd hidden him from was the danger to children, and now that they all knew he existed they were forcing him to go. Why couldn't they just refuse to send a child? Was their leader really that bad? They could've all just hidden themselves away like Tohora had.

"What did you have to do to come home?" he asked. Roy sucked in a deep breath. He opened his mouth, only to have his voice caught in his throat. After more unbearable silence, he finally cleared his throat and started again.

"Whatever it took."


	4. Sweet Disposition

**First submitted intros! Big thanks to **santiago . pochini20**, **AmericanPi** and** TheEngineeringGames **for Ardor, Ellie and Porter respectively. I'll be updating the blog with their tribute focus posts soon, and in the meantime the title for this chapter comes from the song by **The Temper Trap**. Hope you all enjoy!**

**Also, short warnings for transphobia and bullying in Ardor and Porter's sections.**

* * *

**03 - Sweet Disposition**

* * *

**Ardor Thist - 18 - District 4**

_One week before the reapings_

"_This is very exciting,_" the grainy voice from the hologram said. Ardor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. All of the theory classes at this point were just reviewing past Games footage and analysing mistakes, but he still wasn't prepared for today's. "_We have a number of charismatic tributes this year, wouldn't you agree, Caesar?_"

Caesar Flickerman, still the host of the Hunger Games at the time of the 77th Games, made an affirmative sound at Claudius Templesmith. "_Absolutely, Claudius. A lot of interesting tributes to keep an eye on, if you ask me. Especially the young newlywed Career._"

The camera panned to the pedestal for one of the District Four tributes. Ardor clenched his hands tightly together. A few gazes landed on him.

"_I shouldn't say this so early, but I have high hopes for young Slatia_," Claudius went on. "_And coming into the Games so soon after having her second child!_"

"_A paragon of the Career strength, Caesar. She'll be sure to inspire future gene_—"

A loud boom overshadowed Claudius' voice. Both hosts scrambled for a clue, jumping in their chairs as the live feed of the Games showed one less tribute on the pedestals. Instead of Slatia from District Four, there was only smoke and a large splatter of blood. Beside her pedestal, reeling back from what had been an obvious throw, the District One girl grinned and slow clapped at her work.

"_I… I believe we have our first kill of the Games…_" Claudius stammered. "_Ladies and gentlemen, Emeraude Harrison from District One has just… Was that her token?_"

The screen replayed the seconds leading up to the explosion. Emeraude clearly lobbed the large opal pendant at Slatia's pedestal. The live feed resumed, and just as the countdown ended, everyone started to run. Everyone, except for Emeraude. The moment her foot landed on the ground, ready to add another kill to her count, the mines around her pedestal went off.

"_My word!_" Claudius was still gawking. Ardor was beginning to feel his breakfast come back up. "_It looks like, before the bloodbath has even begun, we can place two of the tributes!_"

Two bust shots appeared on the screen. _Emeraude Harrison, D1, 23rd. Slatia Thist, D4, 24th_.

The teacher paused the recording just as the bloodbath cut to that year's winner, Roy Willard, blocking a blow from an axe with his supply bag. There was an elephant in the room that very few people seemed eager to address.

"Alright," the teacher announced, "who wants to tell me what mistakes were made by the Careers in this Hunger Games?"

A few hands slowly rose up into the air. Ardor didn't bother joining—it would just make things all the more awkward, if he answered the question.

"T—The girl from One," a student behind him started, "she, um… Got jealous?"

"Not quite." The teacher pointed further back into the room. "Yes, Wattana?"

"She broke the rules," the girl at the back of the room replied. She was supposed to be volunteering with Ardor this year, right? He couldn't really remember her name. "You aren't allowed to attack anyone until the timer ends in the arena. It's the one rule from training that stays in effect literally."

The teacher nodded. He swiped the hologram away from the whiteboard. "Correct. Though we've seen plenty of tributes jump too early or drop their tokens by accident on the mines, no one has actually been allowed to deliberately kill using the pedestals. Digging them up afterwards? Permissible. Before those sixty sends end? Your own pedestal is still armed for an added ten seconds."

He wrote these down on the whiteboard as he spoke. Students all around, even Ardor added the notes to their books. Ardor's fingers were numb as he did so.

"Most Careers aren't aware of this as it's not something they think to do. It's not Career-worthy. So can anyone tell me the mistake that Slatia Thist made?"

Ardor froze. He glanced up warily at the teacher, only to find expectant eyes on him. _Don't make me say it_, he begged. _Don't make me insult her memory_.

"Thist," the teacher called. Ardor cursed silently and dropped his pen. The tension in the room grew more and more. Soon enough that elephant wouldn't be able to fit in the tiny space. "Why did Emeraude Harrison lash out at Slatia Thist?"

Ardor swallowed thickly. In the back of his mind he could hear all the reasons he'd grown up listening to from his father. _Because I was born. Because I wasn't good enough. Because my mother couldn't stand me_.

But the reality came tumbling out of his mouth. "Slatia Thist… stood out too much as a crowd favourite. Careers from higher Districts don't take well to our own overshadowing them. So Slatia was a threat that Emeraude had to eliminate to boost her own standing with the audience."

The teacher stared at him evenly. The ticking of the clock echoed through the silence. One student even muffled his couch into his sweater as best he could.

Finally, the teacher said, "Correct. It's important to be aware of your standing with not just fellow tributes, but also viewers in the Capitol. A lot of Careers in the past have pulled an Icarus with their grandstanding, and it's just as important to be wary of as sabotage."

At least the rest of the class didn't feature more clips of Slatia. Ardor was able to relax somewhat, to study the victor of that year in peace. No one dared mention the fact that he'd had to analyse his own mother's mistakes, as well as pin some form of victim-blaming on her death. If anything, they all avoided him and let him have his space. Ardor took deep breaths with every passing minute, until finally the bell for lunch rang.

Walking out of that classroom was a relief he'd never felt in his life.

While most students avoided him, his supposed partner strolled up to his side and gave him a big smile. It wasn't a smug one, or even a malicious one. More sympathetic, like the ones his friends would give him at times.

"I'm sorry you had to answer that," she told him. "Talking about family in Games is rough."

Ardor nodded and turned his head. She wasn't walking off yet—what did she want?

"We haven't spoken in person yet, have we?" She skipped by his side and fixed her hair. "I'm Shandrelle. People call me Shan or Shanny most of the time."

Ardor nodded again. He still didn't look at her. She still wouldn't leave.

"I don't mean to pry, but I heard from some of our classmates that you're trans too?"

_Too_. Ardor walked a little faster. _Too_. He didn't want to start comparing himself to her. _Too_. If he started thinking, he wouldn't stop.

But he looked at her this time. Against his better judgement, he stared at her chest. It reminded him of his own when he was at home, desperately wishing some miracle would remove them for him. That someone would have a change of heart and offer to take them away.

"Are you…?" he mumbled. He couldn't stop himself, and Shandrelle had heard him clear as day.

"Oh, yeah. I missed a bunch of classes a while back because of surgery, so we never got to meet once the classes merged. What about you?"

His father's voice assaulted his ears again. All the slurs, all the deadnaming, all the blame. Not enough. Not enough. _Not enough_.

Ardor walked even faster. He hung his head, avoiding eye contact with Shandrelle, and made it more than clear that their conversation was over. He heard her footsteps slow to a stop behind him, and he didn't dare look back at her to see if she'd truly given up.

He hated this. He hated not being able to revel in solidarity with others like him. He hated being so alone. But how could he possibly trust anyone he didn't know? How could he possibly trust someone so willing to pry into his private life at the drop of a hat? Ardor rushed for the cafeteria, his chest collapsing in on itself; he needed his friends, he needed his sister. He needed someone he _knew_ he could trust.

The doors to the cafeteria opened, but not from Ardor's hands pushing against them. A Peacekeeper inside, clearly looking for someone, had pulled them open and practically run into Ardor in his hurry. Ardor stumbled back, but he was soon steadied by a gloved hand catching him.

The Peacekeeper looked him up and down, and very clearly recognised him. Who wouldn't, with a dad as demanding as his own and a mother as tragic as Slatia?

"Your dad's here, kid," the Peacekeeper told him. Ardor raised a brow, confused. Something in his gut stirred a second time today. "He said you have a doctor's appointment he needs to take you to."

Ardor's heat jumped into his throat. But… Ardor hadn't booked any appointments. He didn't need to see the doctor, not right now. He wasn't even planning on seeing one until after the Games, so why was his dad here?

"You okay, kid?" the Peacekeeper prompted him. Ardor startled and cleared his throat.

"It's fine," Ardor insisted. "I just… got really caught up with classes. Forgot."

The Peacekeeper chuckled. "Been there. Make sure your old man brings you back for afternoon classes. Trainers will have my ass if one of their volunteers falls behind."

"W—Will do."

Alberto Thist was not someone Ardor enjoyed seeing outside of home. The longer he could avoid the man during the day, the better. So there was no love lost between the two males when their gazes met, especially not when Alberto began walking off of the campus without so much as a word to Ardor in greeting—or even explanation.

Nothing new.

At the very least, a doctor's appointment was true enough. The most trusted clinic among Careers was just a block away from the Academy, and it was pretty typical of the doctors to pay visits to the school grounds to keep up with volunteer health. Which was why Ardor was a little confused today, why his father leading him to the doors of the clinic felt off somehow. The fact that Alberto even knew the name of the doctor who treated Ardor was staggering, especially considering how little he'd cared back when Ardor had been in hospital.

Then again, why would Alberto want to acknowledge the blame aimed at him for _that_? He wasn't in the wrong—it was everyone's but his.

"I don't remember booking an appointment," Ardor finally muttered. The waiting room was empty save for the two of them. "Did you book it?"

"_I_," Alberto said slowly, "am making sure you follow through. I told you I don't care whatever the fuck you want to do afterwards, but I need to know you won't pull out and make us a laughing stock."

"I'm not pulling out—"

Alberto's glare was sharp. Ardor fell silent immediately, even if he wanted to keep talking and overpower his father's voice.

"Then I'm making sure you don't use the Games to off yourself," Alberto went on. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and shook his head. "You've no idea how much fucking work I had to—"

Ardor tuned him out completely then. This was normal. This was one of Alberto's tirades, mocking Ardor for something he'd done in the past and then, once that was done to death, mocking him for his sexuality and his desire to transition. Ardor made it clear—God, he made it so painfully clear to Alberto in that moment of courage—that the money from the Capitol would be used for surgery. Alberto had been agreeable for once, if only because Ardor had sounded so confident that he'd win—that he'd fix what happened to his mother in the 77th Games.

It was around the point when Ardor's appearance, far too boyish for Alberto's tastes, was being critiqued that his doctor finally arrived.

"Ardor?" he called. Ardor rose. Alberto shook his head and sighed heavily.

"Fuck's sake," Alberto grumbled. "Again with the Ardor."

And as the door closed behind them, trapping Ardor in the small room with his father and his doctor, all he could feel was the pit in his stomach growing deeper and deeper.

* * *

**Elizabeth Porter - 16 - District 6**

_One month, two weeks before the reapings_

No matter what lavish breakfast was sprung upon them, Ellie always felt like a pit was forming in her stomach. Even with all the good news in the world to buffer the tension, something always set off two or more members of the Porter family. Someone would be chided, or a backhanded compliment would be directed at one of the girls. Some days it was almost too unbearable for even Ellie.

She glanced warily at Anne, across the table and poking at her porridge with her spoon idly. Since the start of the week, they'd both been sharing a secret between them that voicing to their parents would prove difficult. It was no secret that Anne had a wild lifestyle, and that their parents never approved of it—but it was the result of that lifestyle that she could only trust Ellie with, her closest confidant and the only other person in this household that knew how Anne felt beneath all the pressure.

It was because of this shared pressure that Ellie knew Anne's decision, as painstaking as it was, would prove to sour Mercedes and Bill Porter's moods more than usual. She knew that expectations would be dumped on her now that Anne would be dubbed a disappointment, a lost cause. She knew that, as usual, Ria would suffer no such pressure.

Still, Ellie supported Anne's decision. It was a situation close to the whole family's hearts, even if their parents would be disappointed in the way Anne had come about it.

Ellie slowly munched on some toast as Anne finally met her gaze. They were both nervous, but the looks they exchanged while Bill and Mercedes focused on their younger sister gave the duo all the reassurance they both needed.

Anne set down her spoon. Mercedes's head flicked around, her eyes locking onto her eldest daughter. "You should eat, Anne," she ordered. With Ellie, it was always a suggestion. But with Anne it always came out as an order.

"I know," Anne said. She sucked in a deep breath and clenched her hands into fists atop the table. Ellie suddenly wished she'd sat next to Anne this morning, if only to hold her hand for comfort. She slid her foot further under the table and prayed the slipper she nudged belonged to Anne. "I have something to tell you guys."

Bill Porter was quick to cradle his face in his hands. Mercedes was scarily silent.

Anne swallowed thickly. "I'm… I'm pregnant. Two weeks."

Both adults sucked in sharp breaths. The room seemed to drop in temperature. The tension was so thick, Ellie could've sliced it with a knife. Not even a sharpened knife—the bluntest of knives in their kitchen could split the tension clean in half. And it was only growing, slowly draining the room of its air as Ria, only ten years old and unaware of the consequences, gave Anne an excited gasp.

"Who's the daddy?" she demanded. Anne flinched, as did their parents, but Victoria Porter was too enthusiastic to notice. "Are you gonna live with him and get married?"

Anne shook her head slowly. The longer she shook her head, the more her parents began to bristle.

Mercedes looked down at Ria and said, "Victoria, go and rinse your plate and make sure your room is clean."

Ria huffed in annoyance, but she complied nonetheless. She passed Anne with a big grin and told her she was happy, that she loved babies and could brag to her friends at school now, and then she disappeared into the kitchen and turned on the tap.

The speed with which Anne cut off Bill, who opened his mouth to start his scolding, was incredible. "I'm keeping the baby," she announced. There was no room for negotiation in her tone.

"On your own? Out of wedlock?" Mercedes scoffed at her. Anne stood her ground, refusing to flinch this time. "We raised you better than that, Anne. Have some pride."

It was Anne's turn to scoff. "Pride? What does a _baby_ have to do with _pride_? You, of all people, should know the two are mutually exclusive. Or did losing our sibling warp you that much?"

Bill all but jumped out of his chair. His face was beet red, the veins along his forehead about to burst through his skin. Anne began backtracking immediately—and Ellie couldn't blame her. The subject of Mercedes' miscarriage was touchy for everyone. Even Ellie struggled with the aftermath of the tragedy, her parents coping in ways that harmed their existing children.

But still, it was a sensitive, if low blow to deal.

"How _dare_ you—" Bill began.

Ellie rose as well, raising her hands placatingly. She promised she'd help Anne. One slip up wasn't going to change that. "Dad, please, she didn't mean it," she insisted. Bill turned his fury on to Ellie, but it slowly dimmed to a more restrained rage.

"Elizabeth," he said slowly, "did you know your sister was pregnant?"

Ellie gulped. "Y—Yes. Anne confided in me until she felt comfortable to tell you. We thought you'd be happy."

"How can I be happy when my daughter is sleeping around and making us all look like buffoons?" Mercedes shook her head. She pinched her brow and sighed. "Elizabeth, we're supposed to hold ourselves with a certain level of decorum. What _Anne_ has done is undermine everything William and I have done to get us to this point—"

"By getting pregnant?" Anne scoffed and crossed her arms in front of her. "Stop acting like I—like I stole from someone or ran around in public naked!"

Mercedes threw her hands up in the air. "You may as well have! Whoring yourself out like that, I'm not surprised we don't already have a bad stigma to our name! Did you even _think_ of how this would affect Elizabeth and Victoria?"

For a moment Anne stared at her mother. She blinked slowly, worked her jaw. And then Anne finally looked to Ellie, her expression softening a little.

"Can't say we didn't try," she told her. Ellie's shoulders sagged. Truth be told, she'd been hoping for the same thing Anne had—support and relief that it wasn't something worse. But Anne's party-goer lifestyle and confidence in her sexuality was just too much, apparently.

Anne picked up her half-finished breakfast and announced, "I'm heading out."

The snide remark Mercedes made fell on deaf ears. Anne just kept walking, out into the kitchen, and Ellie just sat back down to pick at her own breakfast. She'd lost her appetite, but she didn't want to leave just yet. She wanted everyone to be okay, even if she had to sit through a scolding of her own for keeping such a secret from her parents. They'd suffered in their own right when the miscarriage had happened, and Ellie couldn't bring herself to abandon them like they had her sister.

Bill heaved a sigh as he also sat back down. "At least you haven't thrown your life away, Elizabeth. Not like your foolish sister."

"Hm." Mercedes cradled her head in her hand as she scooped up some porridge. "Your grades aren't as good as they could be, though."

"Sorry," Ellie mumbled. "Sometimes I don't feel like I'm doing enough and I just… miss the bigger picture in homework."

"Then you should stop missing it," Mercedes sighed. "It's not that hard, Elizabeth. Even Victoria knows that much."

Ellie gave up on eating altogether at that. She didn't know why she kept hoping they'd give her comfort when she confessed to feeling lost, yet here she was—still hoping, still holding her breath. She knew one day it would happen, but not today.

Ria came back into the dining room with a bigger grin than before on her face. She grabbed Ellie's arm and said, "Ellie, Venza's here to see you! She said she wanted your help with something."

Right, she was going to spend time with Venza today. She couldn't quite remember what she was helping with, though. Ellie dared a glance at her parents, who were already beginning to renew their disappointment.

"This is probably why you're struggling with school," Bill grumbled. Ellie's stomach dropped.

"I—I'll be back as soon as I can," she insisted. Bill clicked his tongue and hung his head.

"Fine."

She all but fled the table. Just as Ria had said, Venza Chiu was standing a short distance from the front door and had her hands tucked in her pockets. She was fidgeting, clearly something on her mind as she waited, and Ellie was barely able to say goodbye to her family as Venza dragged her away.

Venza was quieter than Ellie, but sometimes it felt like Venza was better than Ellie at making people feel better. Ellie always did her best, always persevered, but whenever she met up with Venza it was like a weight would be lifted from her shoulders. Despite her struggles with her own family, so much like Ellie's own, Venza was always so understanding.

Sometimes Ellie felt bad for piling her own problems on top of everything else.

As soon as the house was out of sight, the girls unseen by anyone in the Porter family, Venza pulled Ellie into a tight hug.

"I ran into Anne on the way," she said. Ellie hugged her back, just as tight. "I'm so sorry you had to go through an argument like that. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Ellie shook her head and smiled. "Hanging out is enough," she told her. Venza pulled back and patted her shoulders. It was her usual act of reassurance. "Besides, you know I feel better when I'm helping others instead of myself."

Venza pouted at her. She grabbed Ellie's hand and resumed dragging her along the sidewalk, a clear plan in her actions. Ellie followed in silence for a moment, wondering if it was okay to ask what was going on, but soon enough the curiosity became too much.

"Where're we going?" Ellie blurted out. Venza rounded a corner with her, and the smell of hot coffee in the distance wafted towards them.

"I know you just had breakfast," Venza said, "but I'm still spoiling you with some comfort drinks. There's a nice little corner cafe that makes herbal tea and you're not going home until you finish _at least_ one cup."

Ellie couldn't help the small laugh that bubbled up to the surface. Yeah, Venza was definitely better than her at making people feel better.

* * *

**Porter Shrier - 14 - District 9**

_Two and a half weeks before the reapings_

As much as he knew it was the wrong thing to do, both for himself and his parents, watching these idiots fall over themselves drunk always made Porter feel better. It had always felt like some kind of justice was being served, impeding them until they were in a similar state to how they saw Porter. It had never been a case of bringing them down to his level—not when Porter was already far above them when they were sober. It had just been about the slow burn and the small victories that came with each night they stumbled out of the brewery doors.

It was catharsis in its truest form. And there was nothing wrong with a little catharsis every now and then.

At first it had been small, Porter playing the sweet, timid child who desperately wanted friends. He'd led the small group, his own bullies, to the doors of his family's brewery and unlocked the latch with a practiced hand. He wanted opinions on a new combination he'd come up with, he had lied, and the group had been all too willing to try it. Porter had filled their cups until they were frustrated, and then he had sat back and watched as they helped themselves to his family's wares.

Then it grew. And it grew. And it peaked.

Porter had felt so much pride, watching all these teenagers drunkenly hook up with each other and perform keg stands at their own whims. Hugo, the leader of the pack, had even buttered Porter up and slurred at him, "You'ze ain't sh'o bad, fo' a cripple."

His blood had been boiling, but his face had been beaming. They all thought they had the cripple eating out of their hands, believing them to be his friend—how moronic, Porter had spat into the bathroom mirror once the party had ended. They all thought they held the power here, all thought that they were using Porter without his knowledge. Idiots. They were all slowly relying on him for a fix, for illegal alcohol to boost their status in school. If Porter's place in their lives became threatened, they'd realise who was using who soon enough.

Not that they could do anything about it.

When the gatherings had peaked, Porter had been standing by Hugo as usual. Mattheus, Hugo's closest friend, had been right there as Porter continued to offer more and more bottles to the boy and gushing about how nice it was to have friends. It was probably the one thing that had implicated him, though Mattheus had always had a particular disdain for Porter. He very rarely approached him unless he wanted to keep an eye on Hugo.

By the beanbags, which had been dragged over by the dozen by older students, stood Dara and Domitius. They were part of the group Hugo led, but more often than not they mingled with other students and acted like they owned the place. Every so often Porter would catch them glance his way, along with a few others, and then look away with condescending giggles. Ever the actor, Porter would wave happily back at them and pretend he was none the wiser.

The stage had been set, a crescendo that had finally reached its limits. Porter had watched as Hugo, drunker than ever before and proclaiming that he, right that very moment, simply had to go out and hook up with a girl from the year above him, stumbled out of the brewery with a mission. She hadn't been at the party—Porter knew she wasn't the type, and no one ever asked her out of fear Hugo would get angry—and it'd been as good a sign as any that Porter was finally, finally reaching the end stage of his plan.

The next morning at school, as everyone nursed hangovers and tried to recollect everything from the night before, an assembly was held. Peacekeepers were present, as were Hugo's parents, and slowly things began to unravel.

The principal took the stage and cleared his throat. "I have some… terrible news to deliver, I'm afraid," he began. Porter's heart soared. "Last night, a student from our school was unfortunately involved in an altercation with Peacekeepers. He… I'm sorry to say he's passed."

Whispers broke out among the students. It was no surprise that some gazes landed on Porter, but what had been a surprise was how quickly Hugo's parents had realised the fact. Ever so slowly Porter let the emotions of a devastated child show on his face; but still those glares persisted, still they forced the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.

"Following the conclusion of this assembly," the principal went on, "you are all to return to your homerooms. Your teachers will be handing out notices, and you will be dismissed for the day. This is a tragic experience for each and every one of you, and if you feel any need—_any_ at all—to talk to someone, our school councillors' offices are open all day."

The assembly was short and sweet. Porter kept up his mournful facade as he ambled out with the others. The fact that some of the students knocked at his cane when they passed, obviously lashing out at him, only made him look more and more like a victim in this tragedy to the adults. He limped out of the room and did his best to recover his balance. As the morning sun shone down on the students that slowly dispersed to their classrooms, Porter could feel satisfaction sink into his skin.

Finally. All that time spent pretending to be that prick's clueless friend paid off. Now everyone else would flock to him in order to keep their alcohol supply, even without Hugo to lead them.

Homeroom concluded within fifteen minutes, a quick affair that Porter had no problems with. He grabbed his bag, grabbed his cane from where it leaned against his desk, and he followed his classmates outside to finally head home. His mother was going to worry, for sure, but it was nothing Porter couldn't fix with a few pretty words.

Waiting outside the classroom for him was Mattheus, arms crossed over his chest and brows pinched to the point of merging. Porter almost hesitated when their eyes met, but still he pressed on and made himself look distraught once more.

"I—I'm really—" he began once he ambled over to Mattheus, but the other boy held up a hand and glared down at him.

"Save it. Follow me." With the gruff order, Mattheus turned on his heel and strode down the halls. He was heading towards the courtyard, to the spot Porter knew they'd hide out whenever they skipped classes. Porter struggled to keep up, Mattheus hardly making an exception for the other boy's disability.

When Porter finally caught up with Mattheus, shade from the building cast over them like a cloak, Mattheus grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. From behind a corner, Domitius and Dara emerged and flanked Mattheus.

Shit.

"Wh—What are you—" Porter's voice trembled. He'd be damned if he dropped his act now. They had no proof, whatever they were punishing him for.

"I said, _save it_," Mattheus growled. He lifted Porter up off the ground, leaving him to dangle at his mercy. "You're not fooling anyone, freak."

Porter blubbered and shook his head.

Dara was already beginning to crumble under his act. "Matt, wait, what if we're wrong?"

"No," Mattheus insisted. "The freak planned it all. I told you he was getting Hugo drunker every time they were near each other." Mattheus slammed him against the wall again. Air rushed out of Porter's lungs. "He set Hugo up to be caught by the Peacekeepers—and now Hugo's dead!"

Porter shook his head harder and harder with each accusation. He was right, naturally, but Porter was dead if he admitted to it. "No, I—"

Mattheus' fist hit him in the jaw, the knuckles bruising tender skin and stunning Porter into silence.

"Matt, what the fuck!" Domitius gasped.

"He's been using us!" Mattheus yelled back. Domitius looked at Porter in disbelief.

"He's too dumb to use us! He's got that, uh… Cerval…"

Porter would roll his eyes if he could. "Cerebral palsy," he whimpered, if only to save himself from whatever fictitious disorder Domitius would assign him.

"Oh my God, cerebral palsy doesn't make people dumb," Mattheus snapped at Domitius. "How the fuck do you think he's gotten us good grades on our homework?"

Dara pursed her lips. "He's right…" she conceded.

"You feel like a big man now, Port?" Mattheus punched him again. This time Porter felt one of his teeth dig into his lip. "Think you one-upped us by getting Hugo killed? Think you're normal now?"

He dropped Porter all of a sudden. The descent was too fast—he couldn't balance himself and instead fell to his side on the grass. Mattheus began kicking him in the stomach, punctuating his demands.

"Bet you thought we'd move on from Hugo and make you our friend, huh? Bet you thought we would keep you around? You cocky fucking _bastard_—"

Porter spat the blood from his lip onto the grass. It was enough to bring Dara to a panic, pulling Mattheus off of him and screaming, "Stop! They'll know we did it if you beat him too much!"

Porter curled in on himself and groaned. It hurt. God it hurt so much worse than what Hugo would do. He wasn't even sure if he could walk home after this, not even with his cane.

"You're fuckin' dead, Porter Shrier." Mattheus shrugged Dara off and fixed his jacket. Clearly the beating was over with. "Mark my words, you're a dead man."

And with that final warning the trio retreated, leaving Porter in the grass and in a pain he hadn't felt since Hugo first began drinking at the brewery.


	5. Hello, World

**Whoops, took a little while with this one;; Great big thank you to **twistedservice**, **DefoNotAFangirl**, and **Professor R.J. Lupin1 **for Shan, April and Samir respectively!**

**Sorry for the delay in updates! But the good news is we're just three slots away from closing the tribute slots! I'll also remind y'all that I have escort apps open if you want to apply - there's now a google form for it, but don't worry if you already PM'd me an escort, you're all clear and don't need to redo anything!**

**With that out of the way, I think I only need to give a slight warning for vague description of animal injuries in April's POV. If that squicks you out, be sure to skip from when the name "Binky" appears. Other then that, enjoy!**

**Oh, almost forgot; the title for this chapter comes from **Hello, World! **by **BUMP OF CHICKEN**. You may have to look up the lyrics translation, but it felt right for this trio when writing them!**

* * *

**04 - Hello, World**

* * *

**Shandrelle Wattana - 18 - District 4**

_One year before the reapings_

For the fifth time today, her painkillers were making her emotional. She laid back in the hospital bed, cold compress over her chest as the medicine did its magic, and stared at her mother's hand. In it was a spoon, and on the spoon was the jelly dessert the hospital had provided following dinner.

"Y—You guys…" Shandrelle whined.

"Yes, dear," Louella cooed. "We know. Now eat up so you can get your strength back."

For the third time today, thanks to her delirium, Shandrelle didn't quite realise Louella was her mother. "Nice lady," she sobbed. "With… With y'er jello hands… Adopt me, Jello Lady…"

"I already am your mother, Shan. Now, open wide."

She complied—and when her jaw dropped, the loudest of cries came flying out. Deep down Shandrelle already knew all of this, and she was feeling the embarrassment ahead of time for sure, but it was hard to fight the haze and the lack of filter that came with aftercare. Surgery wasn't just expensive, it was time-consuming—even after the patient left the operating room.

Even with all her embarrassment, though, she'd be damned if this wasn't good food. Just what she needed after the initial pain of waking up and the irritations she'd feel whenever she breathed. Shandrelle had never realised how much she actually moved her torso until now, and when she was lucid enough she always made an effort to minimise her movements. Top surgery wasn't cheap, and she wasn't about to botch something her parents paid good money for.

From the foot of her bed, bent over the railing, Andrus Wattana watched her with intrigue in his eyes. "Never in my life have I seen someone happy to eat hospital food."

"Give her another week, hon," Louella laughed. "For now, it's all she'll want. Did you get hold of Cavalier?"

Andrus nodded and stood up straight. "He's with his lady friend, but he said he'll bring Shan's friends when he comes by."

Louella rolled her eyes as she spooned another clump of jelly into Shandrelle's mouth. "Honestly," she sighed, "that boy needs to propose to her already. And _you_, young lady." Shandrelle opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish, demanding more food instead of a spoon waved in her face. "When am I getting a son- or daughter-in-law from you? Your mother wants to see you in a pretty wedding dress, you know."

"Hey, now." Andrus waved his hands about in a panic. "We just starved our wallets for surgery. A wedding can wait."

Damn right, a wedding could wait. Shandrelle only just got on the train from the Validation Station and arrived in Titty City.

She giggled. She was totally gonna use that when she went back to school.

"Let's just focus on Shanny's recovery, okay?" Andrus went on. Louella pouted at him for a few seconds, dismayed at having to wait just a little longer to turn into a monster of bridezilla proportions, and finally gave Shandrelle the jelly she was begging for. "You can take her shopping for something less costly. Like, uh…"

"Matchy bra," Shan provided helpfully. Andrus nodded, only to do a double-take and turn pale. "Want matchy bra."

Louella nodded and spooned more jelly into Shandrelle's mouth. "Yes, dear, we'll get you matching underwear."

Once more Shandrelle let out a wail of happiness. She gobbled up the jelly with a big smile on her face, eyes tearing up at the promise of underwear shopping, of all things, and like a savior to her parents her doctor finally entered the private room. He looked over Shandrelle's chart and made a few notes, and then he turned his attention to the Wattana family fully.

Shandrelle tried to wave, but Louella quickly caught her by the wrists and reminded her not to raise her arms.

"Looks like everything is going smoothly," her doctor said. He glanced at Andrus. "Any complications you've noticed so far?"

Had it been anyone else, Shandrelle was _positive_ Andrus would've noted her love of the food as a complication. But the man just shook his head and smiled, crossing his arms in front of him. "We've been making sure she does what the surgeon told us," he reported. The doctor nodded. "Louella's been reading up on aftercare whenever she isn't with Shan, and Shan isn't complaining about anything."

"If it's alright, I'd like to double check," the doctor said.

"Sure. I'll step out—Lou, you'll keep an eye on Shan, right?"

Louella saluted and set aside the jelly. Shandrelle whined. Soon, she told herself, she would get that jelly back.

The doctor was gentle with his examination. Not once did Shan feel any discomfort as he inspected the slowly healing stitches, and when he stood back to allow Louella to fix her gown again he made more notes on Shan's progress.

He clicked his pen and hummed once, then asked Shan, "How are you feeling, ah—Shandrelle, is it?"

Shandrelle smiled goofily up at him. "I'm in Titty City," she proudly declared. Louella was quick to cradle her face in her hands and apologise to the doctor.

"No, it's fine," he told the woman. When he looked back to Shan, he went on, "And how is Titty City?"

"It's _great_," Shan all but yelled. "Gonna buy underwear!"

He made another note. To Louella, he said, "Well, looks like she isn't in too much pain. If she starts, ah, not enjoying 'Titty City', just let the nurses know and they'll fix her up right away."

"We will," Louella sighed. As soon as the doctor left, Andrus was quick to return and on the verge of laughter. His wife caught his eye, and she raised a brow at him as he came to a stop at the bed. "What's got you giggling?"

Andrus glanced quickly at Shan, but as soon as he did he let out a rush of air not unlike a balloon.

"Andrus Wattana, tell me you didn't hear what our daughter said just now."

Andrus shook his head. It was a very bald-faced lie.

"Cavalier," he tried, only to pause and calm himself. "Cavalier messaged me while I was out. He's on his way with her friends."

It was a successful change of subject, at least. Gone was Louella's embarrassment, and instead she was back to being excited and eager for her son to see his sister's newfound energy. Shandrelle couldn't blame her. She'd been stuck in a rut for years now, the dysphoria just getting worse and worse the more puberty took its toll. The hormone therapy was a big help, for sure, but top surgery… Well, it'd helped Shandrelle feel a bit more like herself than anything else had.

To say her happiness was infectious was probably an understatement today.

Even with her mind fuddled and her movements limited, Shandrelle had never felt better in her life. So much had been given to her with this one gesture, so much had been spent on her; to know her family loved her and accepted her this much, had worked this hard just to make her feel better, was worth more than all the validation in the world.

When Louella resumed feeding Shandrelle, she finally cried in earnest and told her parents through her tears, "I love you. I love you so much."

* * *

**April Foxley - 14 - District 10**

_Three weeks before the reapings_

"Mommy wuvs you baby! Yes, she does! Oh, Mommy wuvs you!"

The middle-aged woman was practically bent over the Giant Schnauzer, kissing it loudly on its head as the dog gleefully yipped back at her. Beside her, her husband wordlessly pulled his wallet out of his pants and fished around for cash.

Jacobie was busy stacking the dog's medicine on the counter, and as April totalled the cost the owner of the establishment—and their mentor, Alice—gave clear instructions to the owners on the Giant Schnauzer's treatment. It'd been a small abscess on the leg, but April knew by now after years of Alice's teachings that animals needed medication just as much as people did in these situations.

"I'll leave you with my trainees to book his next appointment. It'll just be a followup to see how the leg is doing."

"We will, Dr. Rattson," the husband said. "Thank you."

April logged them into the slow, outdated computer for an appointment in two weeks. The couple clearly cared about the dog, thanking Jacobie and April profusely now that Alice was back in her office; even when they walked out the front door, April could see through the window the wife cradling the large dog and the husband coming in for a group hug.

"Almost makes up for not being able to go to the farms," Jacobie sighed. April smiled at him and nodded. They primarily worked on livestock, but seeing pets and reassured owners reunited still felt good.

"That should be the last of Alice's appointments for today," April told him. She triple-checked the diary, and sure enough the Giant Schnauzer was the last one booked in.

"What day was the McKinley mare meant to give birth?"

April flicked over a few more pages. "Due date is… Next Wednesday. We'll have to make sure we don't miss any calls in case it comes early."

Jacobie shrugged. He moved over to the shelf of food and over-the-counter treatments, fiddling with them every so often and making the shelf look neater. "Well, it's not like we can't do it ourselves if Alice gets caught up," he decided. "That was the easy topic compared to everything else."

"Easy until the foal has complications," April mumbled.

The phone let out a shrill ring. April jumped, almost tearing out a page of the diary, while Jacobie scrambled back to the desk. He was wide-eyed, probably expecting the call to be from the McKinley farm saying the foal was early. The irony would not have been lost on them if that was the case.

"Rattson Clinic, this is Jacobie," he said all at once. "How can I help you?"

There was a long pause, a silence as Jacobie listened to the person on the other end. He visibly relaxed—not the McKinleys, then—but was soon furrowing his brows and gesturing for a pen and paper. April slid some over, and she herself started to pinch her brows when she saw him write down whatever symptoms were being fed through the receiver.

"And how long has this been happening? Just this morning? Alright." More notes on the paper. "Miss Marsden, are you able to get a look at all four udders? Good, good—all four of them? Can you feel the udders for me and tell me if they're soft?"

April quickly took the paper. She recognised those characteristics, and she hurriedly wrote under the symptoms he listed, _Leptospirosis?_

Jacobie nodded, his look on his face telling her he thought the same. "Alright, thank you, Miss Marsden. I'll let Dr. Rattson know right away and she'll come see what can be done. Until she arrives, keep an eye on the cow and make sure to note any other changes. What kind—Oh! Just something like a fever, anything you notice out of the ordinary will help. Okay, we'll send Dr. Rattson right away. Goodbye."

"Poor thing," April gasped once he hung up. Jacobie hummed and turned on his heel to enter Alice's office.

"I think that was Old Man Marsden's niece. She said he left her in charge and one of the cows was leaving clots in the milk."

The door to Alice's office opened before he could so much as knock. She was already holding her travel bag, looking down at Jacobie with an almost proud expression.

"Heard it all," she told him. "Help me load up the truck. You're getting field experience for this."

April watched as she brushed past him. Jacobie was beaming when he turned back around, more than ready to tackle a livestock issue like he'd asked Alice to train him to do. April could only feel herself deflate as they headed for the door, Alice's invitation not extending to her even as she turned around to tell her to watch the clinic.

"If anyone comes in without an appointment, you should be able to handle them," Alice told her. April looked at the floor and nodded. "Hey. Chin up, kiddo—you're a good student and a better trainee. Any animals that come through this door are in good hands."

They were gone in minutes. The clinic was dead silent as April stayed rooted to the spot. There wasn't much for her to do, not when all the appointments were done and sudden arrivals were few and far between. Jacobie had already made the shelf look neater, and aside from stocktake April may as well be twiddling her thumbs until Alice and Jacobie got back. They didn't even have any overnight stays—the Giant Schnauzer had been the last one.

She sank into the desk chair and sighed. She wished she'd been the one to pick up that phone. It'd startled her too much, and Jacobie was much better at thinking on his feet than she was. He's probably already assumed it was a worst-case scenario, and he all but jumped into the fray expecting the worst.

April wished she could go with the flow like he could.

But Alice had complimented her skills, and if Alice was praising her then that had to mean something. Alice didn't let just anyone study under her, and she'd been teaching Jacobie and April since they were both ten. They'd be long gone by now if either of them weren't up to Alice's standards.

She heard screaming from outside, muffled but definitely close enough to make her look up. April peeked around the desk at the door, and through the window she could see a pair of kids jumping off of a bike shared between them and cradling something wrapped in a blanket.

A bloodied blanket, April realised once it was close enough for her to make out its pattern.

The kids were no older than ten, tears streaming down their faces as the taller one shoved open the door and hurried the smaller one. April jumped out of her chair and moved in front of the desk. This wasn't good. Alice wasn't even here, either. She wouldn't be able to come back until after she got to the Marsden farm—and that would be if April managed to pass on the message to the Marsden girl first!

"Please help Binky!" the smaller child cried. He clutched the blankets with shaking hands, and when April leaned down to pull back a corner of blanket she found a panting, injured cat laying prone in his arms.

"What happened?" April quickly asked. The taller girl scurried over and began shoving money from her pockets—loose change, mostly—onto the counter.

"The neighbour's dog got to him," she sniffled. "Please, you have to help him!"

She looked from the kids, and then to the injured Binky. The poor tabby cat looked like it'd seen better days. Its injuries were pretty severe, from the looks of it—the girl had blood on the back of her shirt from where her brother had balanced Binky between them. April had no doubt the boy would be covered in it too once she took the cat.

April sucked in a deep breath. "Breathe," she told herself, only to stop when she realised the kids were still there. But to her surprise, they followed her own instructions in took in deep breaths of their own. "Breathe," she repeated, louder this time.

With the children reduced to just hiccups now, April hurried to the desk and scribbled down the phone number that was logged from the Marsden girl's call. She traded the paper for Binky, and she told the young boy, "I need to look at Binky but I'll need your sister to help me. Can you call this number and tell the lady on the other end to let Alice know that April is treating your cat?"

He nodded fervently. April thanked him and turned on her heel, and without even needing to be told his sister followed close at her heels. Binky was in good hands—Alice had told her so, so it had to be true.

It had to be true.

…

"Breathe in…" April sucked in a long breath through her nose. She was crouched down into a squat, elbows atop her knees and forehead pressed against her knuckles. "Breathe out…"

Alice still wasn't back yet. April had done all she could for Binky, but now it all depended on how well she'd executed it all. What if she'd made a mistake somewhere? What if she'd given him too much anesthesia? April's lip trembled. Did she give him enough blood during the impromptu surgery? She'd cleaned him up enough to let the kids spend time with him, just in case he didn't make it, but was it enough?

"Clear the fur from around the wound," she recited to herself. "Flush the wound to ensure nothing is caught in it. Use three percent hydrogen peroxide to flush it. If tissue under the wound passes by when you move the skin, do not bandage. If the wound bleeds excessively, apply pressure with a sterile napkin. When the bleeding stops…"

April dry heaved through the surgical mask. "Breathe," she coughed to herself. "B—Breathe in…"

From the other side of the clinic she could hear the bell from the door ring. April didn't have the energy to look up and see if it was another emergency. She wasn't sure she could handle so much pressure without someone to help her—she couldn't put that little girl through the stress of playing nurse again, either. For Binky, maybe, but not someone else's pet.

Footsteps thundered through the clinic, forcing April to push her face in an upwards position. She had to man the fort until Alice got back, she told herself. These animals weren't able to take care of themselves if they were here. April _had_ to do it for them.

But not this time, she realised. No sooner had the thought struck her, Alice's chubby frame sped into the room and skidded to a stop in front of the teen. Alice looked April up and down—at the scrubs she was in and the mask still on her face—and then gave her a quick pat on the shoulder. Like a bullet, she was off to the next room before April could say another word.

Jacobie followed closely after. He had one of the travel bags in his arms, and he was more out of breath than the fifty-year-old, overweight Alice was.

"We—" he wheezed. "We got— Came back as— _Samples_—"

April nodded and pointed to the door where Binky was resting—and, if her doubts were affirmed, where Alice would be fixing her mistakes.

As soon as Jacobie disappeared inside, the door opened again. She was expecting the children to have been kicked out so Alice could work, but she didn't hear the sobs and hiccups that came with them. Instead she heard Alice's boots thump along the floor, until finally Alice sat down beside her against the wall.

An arm was wrapped around her shoulders. April was brought in for a half-hug, Alice rubbing at her shoulder reassuringly.

"You did a good job, April," she whispered. April felt her chest collapse in on itself. "Binky's going to be fine. I don't approve of you making the girl help, but you made do with what you had. I'm proud of you."

April's lip trembled. She fought to keep the tears out of her voice. "I couldn't amputate the tail," she admonished herself.

"That's okay. We'll do it tomorrow—after you and Binky get plenty of rest. That's all you two need right now."

* * *

**Samir Naragen - 15 - District 11**

_Six months before the reapings_

All he needed now was some meat. It wasn't exactly going to be fancy, but it was still going to be his best work so far. He just needed to pick the right meat to go with it.

Samir loved cooking, no doubt about it, but cooking for birthdays always had a bit more pressure and weight to the act. Money was tight without a special occasion, and not everyone could come over to celebrate with how often their father pushed them away. Some years Samir would be lucky to see the whole family in their house to celebrate, but most of the time it was tense and gaps where siblings should be always left a sour taste in everyone's stomachs.

He could leave everything to cook and run down to the market, couldn't he? Nothing would burn in that time, right? But then he'd have to pick the meat in a hurry, and with his luck he'd get something no one would like. Samir chewed his lip and tapped his foot on the kitchen floor. What to do…

There was a knock on the wall nearby. Samir looked over his shoulder, still tapping his foot, and was met with the sight of one of his sisters. Privet had recently come back to live with the family now that she was divorced, and she'd brought back her infant son with her. Ian was a quiet baby and never really disturbed anyone, so Samir wasn't too worried to see him cradled over her shoulder and fast asleep.

"Need any help?" Privet whispered to him. Samir shook his head with a smile, only to pause when the meat filled his mind again.

"What do you think everyone would want to eat?" he asked her. Privet entered the kitchen fully, surveying the food he'd already laid out to prepare.

"Pork?" she tried. "You could do a platter. Bacon and ham and chops."

"Too much money," he said quickly. Privet rolled her eyes and bounced Ian about. "Would there be a sale on some beef, you think?"

"How many are you cooking for?" Privet asked him. He sighed and tried counting his siblings and their children on his fingers, but that was an uphill battle he wasn't ready to fight.

Instead he just told her, "I'm cooking on the assumption the family puts aside its differences for one night."

"Oof." The response came from behind them. Both Privet and Samir turned back around, startled, and found Jassamyne wandering inside with just her pyjamas on. "That's a tall order, Sam."

He shrugged. "Better than underfeeding us."

Jassmyne yawned and nodded in agreement. "Tell ya what, I'll take Privet and Ian shopping and we'll pick something out. And before you say no," she cut him off, raising her voice a tad, "I've been setting aside money from work in case I need it for anything. We'll have enough for a platter like Privet said."

"Oh, Jessa!" Privet moved closer to her younger sister with a twinkle in her eye. "Can we visit Reed while we're out? His little one is six months, isn't she? I want to introduce Ian to her."

"Actually," Samir jumped in, "the dinner's _for_ Reed. So if you guys can make sure he comes tonight, that'll be a big help."

Privet raised a brow at him. "But Reed's birthday isn't for a few more days."

"Yeah, but Dad's calmer than usual _today_. I want to keep the peace as much as possible for him."

Despite her older sister's dubious expression and the objection she was trying to make, Jessamyne nodded and grabbed Privet by the shirt to pull her out of the kitchen. "Makes sense, I guess. We'll be back in a bit, Samir!"

"Wait—I didn't tell you which dishes I'm—"

Jessamyne shut the kitchen door behind them.

"—cooking…" Samir's shoulders fell. He let out a little sigh and looked over at the ingredients he had laid out on the counter. They were definitely going to have to wait a little longer. If Jessamyne was hurrying to get away from Samir and any potential ramblings about his dinner plans, then she sure as hell wasn't going to slow down once he caught up to her. Not that Samir thought he ever rambled—he just got excited about some things, was all. There was no harm in a little excitement.

By the time Samir had safely set aside the ingredients and made sure no unwanted visitors would eat away at them, Jessamyne and Privet were out the door with Ian in tow and too caught up in their own conversation to notice Samir calling for them. Samir scrunched up his face and turned on his heel, hurrying past the kitchen and towards one of the bedrooms of their cozy home. He hadn't heard Sash leave the house at any point today, so maybe he could ask her for help getting the message to their sisters.

He knocked on the door of her room, shared with Jessamyne and Violet nowadays, and was greeted with his youngest sister opening the door. Thirteen-year-old Violet stared up at Samir with wide eyes, her hair a mess to behold; she didn't seem alarmed that Samir was asking for Sash, not when Violet knew how much the siblings got along and relied on each other.

Sash was half-dressed when she answered Violet's call. Samir felt a sigh bubble. He hoped she'd be fine running out in a jacket and pyjama shorts.

"What's up, Sam?" Sash chirped. Samir ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

"Can you run after Jessa and Privet? They went to the market to grab some meat for dinner but they didn't listen to what I'm making. I'm worried they'll get something that won't suit it."

Sash raised a brow. "You want me to run after them… and make sure they get the right meat? The most versatile part of a meal?"

"Well it sounds silly when you say that about it."

"It sure does." Sash zipped up her jacket and stuffed her hands in her pockets. "Lemme grab my shoes. How long ago did they leave?"

"Not long. If I didn't have to worry about the ingredients I'd run after them—"

"I know, I know. Don't worry about it, you can count on me." She disappeared behind the door. A few seconds later she was walking out of the room with her worn down galoshes gripped by the legs. "Anything else you need me to do?"

Samir opened his mouth, only to close it. Was there really anything else he needed from the market? It was just the meat he was missing, and Jessamyne was handling the money for it. All they really needed to do was make sure they invited Reed over once that was done.

He couldn't stop himself from saying it: "Make sure they tell Reed to come for dinner. I feel like the play date with Ian and Laurel will distract them."

Sash saluted lazily. "Can do. Hey, want me to invite your girlfriend while I'm at it? Make it a big family gathering and welcome her to our household."

As she breezed past him, grin on her face, Samir crossed his arms over his chest. "Okay, first of all, not my girlfriend—"

"First of all, I'm gonna keep calling her that." Sash disappeared down the hall. Her voice echoed through the house as she made her way to the front door. "Secondly, you can finish your argument when I come back. Be back soon!"

The door clicked shut behind her. Samir sighed heavily, lingering outside the room as his shoulders slumped once more. He could hear Violet shuffle back to the door, her eyes zeroing in on him in an instant.

"You aren't dating Celia?" she said, incredulous.

Samir's palm flew to his forehead before he could stop it. He knew he and Celia were close, but was _nobody_ going to believe them when they both said the relationship was platonic? Besides, he and Celia had too much to do in their lives before they could focus on finding a significant other. They were still just kids, weren't they?

Violet let out a hum, quiet and contemplative. "I guess that's good. Dad says we can't trust anyone from over there."

_Over there_. He'd been so caught up with organising dinner that he almost forgot how poorly half the household saw the markets of District Eleven. Members of their own family had become part of _over there_ with time—it had been so long since Samir had last seen his eldest brother, Hyacinth. How old were Hyacinth's kids again? Samir remembered seeing them with the second was just a few weeks old, but how long ago was that?

Years? Couldn't have been more than a few. But it was still far too long for the once close-knit family.

"Well Dad knows Celia isn't like that," Samir said placatingly. Violet raised a brow at him, dubious, but didn't argue. She believed their father's paranoia more than her siblings' reassurances at this point. "And if Celia was bad, then I'd be bad. And you don't think I'm like them, do you?"

Violet shrank back into the room. Samir cursed himself, clearly having said the wrong thing. How could he forgot the one golden rule when dealing with the paranoia? _Never hint to being like the others_. Now Violet would tattle to Acanthus that she'd be worried about Samir, and Samir would have to sit through his mother yelling at his father to stop thinking the world was out to get him.

He hoped they'd wait until after Reed's birthday dinner.

"Dad says it happened to Hyacinth," Violet mumbled. She slowly began to close her bedroom door, eyes unblinking as they bored into Samir. "People from over there are schemers. He said it doesn't take much for them to brainwash you."

As the door shut completely, Samir had to bite back his need to acknowledge the irony in Violet's words. It wasn't fair to her, nor to his father; the man was sick and Violet was impressionable, it wasn't their fault they believed these things. Samir wished he could help more than just with his cooking, trying to make small moments of peace, but what could he do? He couldn't exactly go out and ask for help from the market—he was far too nervous for that—and it wasn't like Acanthus would accept the help after being allowed to hide away in his delusions for so long.

Samir chewed his lip as he turned back for the kitchen. He'd have to work out something to ease the tension after dinner. Food in the belly always helped brainstorming, he found. And besides, Celia was bound to have some ideas of her own that he could bounce around with her.


	6. Under the Water

**Hey all, sorry for the delay. I've got a little message at the bottom of the chapter in regards to that since I don't wanna take up the start with my junk. So great big thank you to **TheEngineeringGames**, **DarkColdSummer**, and **VeneratedArt** for Damian, Sarina and Sisal respectively.**

**The chapter title also comes from the song **Under the Water** by **Aurora**, and it was hard to pick between this and Winter Bird. But I think this one captures everyone best as a group!**

* * *

**05 - Under the Water**

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**Damian Beaufort - 18 - District 2**

_Morning of the Reapings_

"Ah, Laodice," he said softly. He pulled open the door a little further, smiled a little brighter. "You came."

The young girl in the doorway shifted on her feet. Her eyes were red, swollen, and she clearly hadn't slept the night before. It was to be expected, he told himself—the girl she convinced herself had brought about her brother's death was still around, and if she didn't volunteer this year then justice would never be served.

Damian stepped aside, gestured for her to come in. Laodice did so without a word, and it wasn't until the door was shut with a soft click that she spoke. "I know you said after the reapings, but I just…"

But she'd come visit early. Damian smiled. He could work with that.

"It's fine," he told her. He gestured for her to follow him, and she did so wordlessly. Though both of them were already dressed for the reapings, ready to kickstart the Games this year in their own ways, he supposed there was time for tea and a chat. That was what he'd offered to have Laodice over for after the reapings—why not push it up the schedule a little earlier? There was no harm in it.

If anything, it was beneficial for him. Made things easier for him.

His mother's shop was closed for the day, save for those close to the family coming and going as necessary; the darkness of the front room, the sheets draped over her marble statues to stop from collecting dust, it all set the atmosphere in an almost ironic fashion. Laodice was visibly unnerved by the vaguely human shapes beneath the sheets—but she was too scared to stare at them for too long, clearly stumbling after Damian with her mouth sewn shut.

He'd been brewing tea to relax with before the reapings. Laodice picked up on the scent rather quick, asking him, "Tea?" as he led her to the small kitchen connected to the back of the store. It wasn't enough to cook meals in, but sometimes Damian liked to sit in the small kitchenette and watch the statues, or even watch his mother work on them out the front.

"Yes, I was just boiling the water before you knocked. Would you like a cup? It calms the nerves like a charm."

Laodice's face seemed to morph into something akin to disgust, but it soon melted away into something more vulnerable. Defeated. "I'll give it a try," she mumbled. "H—Hector… He liked tea, but I never saw the appeal. Not that I'd ever tried it before now, that is."

Oh, he knew that. Damian waited for her to sit at the small island and fished about through the overhead cupboards for his mother's less expensive cups.

"I heard about your attempt at Pyrrha," Damian noted as he found a suitable set. Laodice cleared her throat nervously, but didn't reply. "Well. I _saw_ the aftermath of it. How's the cut?"

Laodice mumbled again. "Stitches are out."

"I'm glad. You don't deserve to hurt more than you already are because of her."

When he turned back to face her, a cup in either hand, she was staring at the island surface and chewing her bottom lip. Poor thing was probably beating herself up over the rash actions she'd taken, but it was to be expected. So many of Two's tributes were dying because of the bad luck one little hypercompetent girl brought wherever she went.

Damian set down the cups and, with careful movements, reached to pat Laodice on the head. Another thing about him that she'd compare to her brother, another thing he was well aware of.

"We'll get her, Laodice," he reassured her. Laodice leaned into his touch, nodded with a tired whimper. She was so desperate for justice, and it was more than clear that she was relying on Damian more and more to enact that justice.

It'd been announced the week before that Damian would volunteer alongside Pyrrha, and he'd hoped that Laodice would visit him during the goodbyes today for guidance. He would've offered that Laodice, with her bruised ego and the shame from her parents drowning her, stay with his mother during the Games. But she was here now, saving him time and convincing—if he didn't know any better, he'd say she was trying to fill the Hector-shaped hole in her heart with Damian.

Malleable, dutiful Damian.

He turned back to the cups and reached for the cupboard above him. "Can I add anything to the tea to make it go down easier?" he asked her. Laodice hummed, thoughtful, as he searched among the small jars hidden inside.

Damian's fingers paused over the jar he was looking for just as Laodice said, "Some sugar might be nice."

Just his luck. What he wanted looked remarkably like sugar.

"One spoonful should be enough," he said, almost as though talking to himself. Damian set the jar down and began pouring the tea into the cups. Soon after, he was spooning the powder into one cup and drizzling some honey into another.

Laodice was silent for a while as she blew on her tea and watched Damian stir his own. Was she curious about the honey? It should've made sense to her that honey mixed with black tea well enough—at least if she had Hector around drinking it all the time, that was. Regardless, Damian finished stirring and gave her a reassuring smile as he sipped his own tea.

Laodice sipped at her own tea and glanced warily back at the door to the front of the shop. Damian followed her gaze, and for a moment he thought she would notice that some of the statues under the sheets had changed positions. But she didn't, instead smiling to herself and letting out a soft huff of laughter.

"Your mom really likes making statues," she noted. Damian nodded along. "She's really good at it. The Capitol should commission her."

"They do," he told her matter-of-factly. Laodice's head whirled back towards him, amber eyes alight like fireflies. "She just keeps it lowkey. And she's not the only one who sculpts—Mom's got a good eye for these kinds of things."

In fact, Damian and Hadelia's well off lifestyle was thanks to those commissions. A lot of the time he'd hear how hard it was to come by quality marble statues, even in District Two; as soon as the rich in the Capitol caught wind of Hadelia's once tiny business, the money never stopped pouring in.

Laodice downed more of her tea. Damian did the same, asked her, "Did the sugar help?"

She nodded. "Hector liked his plain, but I think sugar makes it nicer. What's in this one, by the way? It's got a fruity taste to it."

"Cranberry," he said. He wasn't a connoisseur of tea—most teas were bitter unless drowned in milk or cream or sugar, and two of those were bad for his stomach—but his recent research into Hector's hobbies helped him find something more to his tastes. He'd been ready to settle for chamomile when he and Laodice had begun talking, but fruit tea was surprisingly common even among those who grew their own leaves.

Laodice licked her lips. She downed another sip, commented that it tasted nice. Just as she started to ask what other kinds of fruits could be made into tea, Damian glanced behind her at the clock on the wall.

She turned, somewhat sluggishly, to follow his gaze. "Oh… We should head off soon, right?" she asked.

Damian shook his head, still smiling. "You're welcome to stay a little longer. We've got time, if you want to get anything off your chest. It's why you came, right?"

"Are you sure? I don't want to, um… Be a nuisance or anything."

"Nonsense, Laodice," Damian soothed her. He turned her back around and held her hands gently in his own. The vulnerability, the hope, that had followed her inside when they first spoke was back in full force. "Everything I'm doing, even now—it's all for your sake."

Her eyes slowly became glassy. Laodice stared at him, searching his face for _something_, before finally she let herself relax. No, Damian thought with another glance to the clock behind her; she wasn't letting herself relax, exactly. It was more like the tea—the powder—was starting to loosen her muscles up.

Just as Laodice's grip sank into his own, Damian observed her face proper. She was slightly flushed, particularly over the cheeks. It was as good a sign as any that she was aware that something was wrong, but the fact that she wasn't trying to run meant she didn't know just who had caused this unrest.

"Laodice," Damian started, his tone well practiced and dripping with concern, "are you alright?"

"I…" Laodice worked her jaw slowly. She tried to stand, but the muscles in her legs were too loose to support her weight. It was a miracle Damian caught her when she did. "I don't feel good…"

Damian draped one of her arms around his shoulders. "The Peacekeepers won't let you skip the reapings unless you're on your deathbed," he told her. "Otherwise I'd send you home. Try walk with me, Mom has some medicine in the back that might help."

"'Kay…"

As soon as he turned her away from the doorway, four statues removed the sheets atop them and, footsteps silent against the tile floor, crept after Damian in unison.

The path from the kitchen to the back of the shop was short, and the stairs that led to the basement was almost as short a trip. Laodice was slowly losing her awareness of her surroundings, only comforted by the concerned tones in Damian's voice. Even as the dimly lit basement turned into a long, candlelit expanse lined with pews, she was none the wiser.

Damian hoisted her up on the altar, careful not to damage her too much as he did so. Chosen career this year he was, he still wasn't chosen for his strength. But he had just enough to see through this much. Laodice watched him, light slowly returning to her eyes; they slowly grazed the room, slowly registered the change in environment.

Only when Damian began to fasten the chains around her wrists and feet did Laodice focus on him again.

Damian smiled sweetly at her. As fast-acting as the drug was, it cycled through the system and wore off just as quick. He'd had to learn the hard way the first few times how to time the transportation.

"Da…" Laodice slurred, and she tried working her jaw again. Not as much success as earlier, Damian noted. He still had time.

Plenty of time to take in the beauty that loomed above Laodice. Plenty of time to admire the reason for his existence, the one he dedicated every waking moment of his life to. Plenty of time to experience that same euphoria he felt every time he saw Her visage.

Sculpted from marble by his mother's own hands, a labour of love just as powerful—no, more powerful than Panem itself. Wrapped in Her shroud, face obscured by Her veil; one arm raised to the heavens, palm outstretched as though waiting for reward; one arm aimed at the altar, dagger held firmly in Her grip as its tip hovered above Laodice. Only the finest of Hadelia's marble had been enough for Her shrine, almost otherworldly in its gold accents and ivory mass.

His Goddess. His saviour. Boethia.

Damian sighed dreamily up at Her. Was She pleased with him? She was pleased all the other times, but did he do a good enough job for Her this time? Or would Laodice just be the appetiser? Time would tell, he supposed.

Behind him, footsteps echoed through the shrine. Three pairs, all followers of Boethia like himself. All the statues who'd followed him and Laodice down to the shrine, watching eagerly as he'd wrapped her around his finger.

One of the women spoke first, the sadness in her voice familiar to not only Damian, but everyone else among their kin. "Poor thing," she sighed. Caprine Jarlliot had previously filled the role Damian did now, and everything he knew he'd learned from her personally. Now that she wasn't the one out and about, luring people to the shrine like a piper waltzing through a hapless village, fragments of weariness were beginning to show in her. "So tragic, losing her brother because of Two's curse."

Her younger brother, Nerit, stopped by Damian's side. Fingers crawled up the length of Damian's back, situated themselves on Damian's shoulder one by one. A shiver ran down his spine at the touch, and the dreamy expression Damian had been aiming at Her soon turned in Nerit's direction.

"But we'll fix that," Nerit purred. Oh, fix it they would. Nerit met Damian's gaze, and the older man's smile looked as sweet as honey. "Especially _you_, Damian."

Laodice was panicking proper now, the chains rattling as she slowly regained mobility. Soon enough she was thrashing about, on the verge of tears as she screamed, "Tell me this is a joke!"

Finally, the leader of Boethia's followers and Damian's mother, Hadelia, appeared at his other side. Damian looked at his mother, saw the pride in her face; pride that was reflected back at her in the steel of her knife, polished so thoroughly that it looked almost like glass. She pressed the hilt into his hand, wrapped his fingers around it with the love and care she gave her own sculptures.

Hadelia loomed over Laodice, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. Laodice was cut off mid-scream as Hadelia balled it up and stuffed it in her mouth, and it didn't take long for the four of them to begin reciting their prayers.

The altar was cleared for Damian. He positioned himself beside Boethia's dagger, readied his own. Laodice pleaded wordlessly with him, losing her battle against her tears, and all Damian could do was smile.

"Everything I do," he whispered, loud enough for Laodice to hear—loud enough for Boethia to hear, "I do for Her."

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**Sarina Irving - 15 - District 7**

_The Reapings_

Everything she did, she did for her sister. Why was that so hard to understand? Why was that so _terrible_? Why?

The argument was still fresh in her mind. The way she'd run through town barefoot, in her pyjamas, as she screamed Karina's name. The way she'd stumbled into the nearby woods, where Pan was startled out of his tent by the sight of her. The way how, when she'd found Karina wandering the lake's edge, she'd tackled her to the ground and held onto her tight. The way her little sister had struggled and smacked her, had begged her for just a moment of peace.

Sarina could still remember the fear that had clung to her, the vivid memories of Karina's head dipping below the surface and never once rising for air. She could remember one of the adults diving in and dragging a prone, near-dead Karina from the lake, and the fear had all but possessed her. Was it so bad that Sarina had wanted her to be safe? That the horror of thinking her sister could die was enough to make her panic? She couldn't understand it. She just couldn't understand.

She couldn't understand why Karina would scream at her, "_I never want to see you again!_"

As soon as the argument, one-sided as it was, ended, Karina had run off in the direction of a friend's house. Not once did her friend budge, let Sarina in to reason with her little sister, and Sarina had been left to walk through the streets of Seven barefoot and in her pyjamas. The words had echoed in her mind, had left her wandering aimlessly the longer they played back. She'd wandered so much, apparently, that she'd made it to the woodland edge that she'd chased Karina out of.

The single tent in the shallows of the woods was open now, not like when she'd ran past begging for Karina to wait. There was a man there, bushy and tall and burly, and he was struggling to tie a tie as he slipped on shoes to finish off his suit.

With memories of Karina's near-death experience came memories of the man who'd brought her back from the brink. No one else seemed to live near the lake, let alone in this particular part of Seven; she shouldn't have been surprised that Pan Mazur, one of Seven's more reclusive Victors, had been the one to help them. But suddenly seeing him there, seeing him in her memory, it was just a little overwhelming for her right now.

Pan looked overwhelmed himself, fumbling with his tie before giving up entirely on it. "Did you, uh," he tried, only to trail off. Sarina swallowed thickly.

"She never…" Sarina mumbled. "It's a lie, right…?"

The puzzled look on Pan's face intensified. "She never, what?"

Instead of answering, Sarina went on, "I've done the right thing, right? I did everything for her, so it was okay… Right?"

"I… I don't know what you're saying, kid."

Sarina shook her head. Neither did she. At this point, she didn't know _what_ was right. She did everything to keep Karina safe, to make sure she flourished, but now Karina… hated her? Never wanted to see her again?

It was unfathomable. But it also just happened. But did it happen? Karina had never looked at her like she was so horrible before. Karina had never said such hurtful things before. Karina had never outright disobeyed her before. Was Sarina really as suffocating as Karina said she was? Was she really so terrible, being afraid to lose her sister in the lake?

She never even noticed she'd left Pan in the dust, leaving as quickly as she'd found him. Sarina just stared ahead, gaze almost clouded by doubt and conflict, as she wandered back—back to the home in Seven where Karina _wouldn't_ be waiting for her. Back to a reaping that she still had to attend, even if by herself this time.

Sarina should have been more concerned by the lost time, the more frequently it happened. One moment she'd be by a certain store, the next she was somewhere else entirely; she was getting closer to her house quicker than usual, and yet she couldn't bring herself to even ponder such an event. She couldn't bring herself to do more than wipe at her eyes every so often, refusing to let tears form and fall down her face properly.

(_She said she hates me._)

Another lapse in time, and the front door closed behind her. Sarina listened for signs of Karina, for a chance she may have come home despite what she'd said—but there was nothing. It was just Sarina.

(_She's never said she hates me before_.)

Her bedroom now. She was half-dressed, arms pulling her turtleneck over her torso and straightening the hem as best they could. When she glanced in the mirror, she saw she was still in her pyjama pants and her feet had been bandaged. The pain wasn't even there anymore, a dull ache in the back of her mind that could easily be ignored. If Sarina looked close enough at her reflection, beyond the mess of her hair and the tear stains on her cheeks, she could see how utterly hopeless she looked. She wasn't supposed to be this pale, and she wasn't supposed to have such deep, dark circles around her eyes.

(_She said she never wants to see me again_.)

Kitchen. She was in the middle of downing a glass of juice, and Sarina choked on it almost immediately. Shit, what if she didn't drink it properly? What if she'd swallowed wrong and it got in her lungs? Sarina leaned over the sink and coughed, eyes squeezed shut and hands shaking as she set down the glass. She didn't need more stress than she already had. Not to mention, drowning in a glass of juice would be an insult.

(_She's never said she never wants to see me again before._)

The morning sun hit her face suddenly. Sarina blinked again, felt the rawness of her throat, and focused on the line she was standing in. Ah, she made it to the Justice Building? That was… a bigger lapse in time. She should be concerned—really, truly—but her heart was too deflated to worry about herself. She was far, far more worried about how Karina was doing, if she'd meant what had been said or if Sarina really was just as horrible as she claimed.

Sarina wasn't overthinking it, was she?

She scanned the lines of children getting their names ticked off of the Capitol lists, but not once did she spot her sister among them. Even if she did see Karina, a daunting thought struck the elder Irving—what if Karina ignored her? What if she made a public spectacle of how much she hated Sarina right now? She shuddered at the thought. Was the fear of losing Karina, especially to a horror such as drowning, truly so irrational?

"Hey, you listening?"

Sarina startled, blinked a few times. Ah, the line had moved enough to put her in front. She was holding everyone up. The Peacekeeper sitting by the reaping list stared at her dryly through their glasses.

Sarina couldn't help it. She furrowed her brows at the Peacekeeper and deadpanned, "No, I'm Sarina. You might find Listening further down the line."

Eyes rolled, younger kids snickered behind her, and a device was shoved in front of her. "Whatever, smartass. Finger."

By this point she barely felt the puncture to her index finger. It was mildly startling how quickly one got used to the pain, but Sarina knew there were much, much worse pains to experience. A prick to the finger was just a one and done thing.

She was ushered forward. Sarina lagged a bit in her walk, lingering on the section of twelve-year-olds gathered already in front of the Justice Building. A lot of parents often feared being punished if their kids were late, even by a minute, and while this was still Karina's first year there was a chance that Sarina's own habits had rubbed off on her. More kids, older teens eager to get in their section and get this over with, shoved at her with a bit more force. Sarina's heart sank, the longer she searched the twelves section and found no sign of Karina.

And then she finally spotted her, dressed in some clothes she borrowed from her friend and glaring ahead at the stage in front of the Justice Building. Sarina let others pass her by, calling to her sister, "Karina! Karina, over here!"

Karina clearly heard her. She saw the way her sister glanced at her, her glare seeming to intensify in that fleeting second of eye contact. But Sarina wasn't met with a reply or a wave or any acknowledgement that Karina had calmed down—no, Karina instead lifted one hand and held it in front of her face, blocking Sarina from her peripheral like she was embarrassed to be recognised by her.

Her stomach dropped to the ground. The teens pushing her forward were no longer met with resistance, and she barely noticed she'd been shoved into the fifteens section as soon as Karina brushed her off.

She really did hate her. She really didn't want to see her again.

Sarina must have lingered longer than she'd expected. It wasn't long after she was standing among those her age that the proceedings actually kicked off. This year's mentors stood at one side of the stage—timid Bishop, too scared to look up from his feet, and frazzled Pan, having given up on looking presentable entirely with his ill-fitting suit—and officials from Seven filled in the remaining chairs. The reaping bowls were brought out, situated on either side of the stage, and the mic stand was quickly set up between the two.

Loup Lucius, a household name in Seven by now, took the stairs up to the stage two at a time. The large red cape she wore dragged along the stage floor, and Sarina blinked at the clearer detail she could see her alterations in. It was hard to see the extent from where the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds stood. But here, somewhere in the middle, it was easy to tell that the long ears she had were more elongated helixes that poked out like a cartoon elf's. And when Loup gave everyone a big grin, preparing to start her yearly greeting, Sarina could actually see sharp canines poking out prominently.

Loup was a younger sister, Sarina remembered. She had a strained relationship with her sibling, too. If Loup had hated her sibling, what would the sibling do?

"Welcome, one and all, to the reapings of the Ninety-Fifth Hunger Games! My name is Loup Lucius, and those of you who tune in to the radio know me from my show, _Life with Lucius_, already know me _especially_ well. I'll be your escort once again, and I must say I have high hopes for District Seven this year—have you seen the mentors?" Loup clapped her hands together, the charisma she exuded actually attracting a few people outside the direct effects of the reapings, and Pan and Bishop were given a short round of applause.

Well. Sarina remembered that Loup and the sibling stayed as far as possible from each other. She was pretty sure the sibling moved out and Loup stayed with her younger brother. Sarina had only heard the radio show once—not her cup of tea—but she knew that what she and her little brother had was… what she and Karina were supposed to have.

"Now, I don't want to take up everyone's time today so why don't we get straight to the reapings? I know I normally break tradition by picking the boys first, but why don't we shake things up for once?" She skipped over to one bowl, and a clawed hand dipped into the slips of paper without any delay. "May the odds be ever in your favour and whatnot. And no matter what happens after today, I'm proud of all of you for being so brave and fantastic."

Brave and fantastic… Right. Sarina definitely wasn't either of those. If her sister, the only person she cared about and valued the opinion of, hated her… What good was she to everyone else?

"And the first tribute for this year's Games…" Loup pulled a slip out, and the small wax seal popped open at the single swipe of her thumb. "Bernadette Arnett!"

A few whispers broke out. Sarina didn't recognise the name. From the eighteens section, a tall girl staggered out and cradled her face in her hands. Ah, no wonder she was so sad. So close to being out of the reapings, and she still got reaped.

Bernadette stood next to Loup, and as soon as she met someone's gaze in the crowd she burst into messy tears and leaned into Loup onstage.

"Oh, dear," Loup cooed. She brought the microphone closer to the teen, going on, "I'm so sorry, Bernadette. Is there anything you want to say before I continue?"

Bernadette wiped at her face, makeup running and looking a proper mess. "It was supposed to be perfect," she wept. Loup nodded along, rubbing her shoulder supportively. "We saved up so much money. It was gonna be in the Spring…"

It didn't take much more to get what she was saying. Bernadette had been so sure she'd never be reaped, she even started planning her own wedding. People married young, desperate to keep the workforce going and Seven's economy alive, but some of them were unlucky enough to die before then. Bernadette was going to die, and she was going to leave behind someone who'd miss her.

Someone who'd… miss her…

Sarina blinked, the pieces finally falling into place. She didn't have money to leave and let Karina live her own life, but that didn't mean there weren't other options.

"I'm so sorry, Bernadeete," Loup repeated. "I'm sure you'll be able to go through with it somehow—my gut's never wrong!" Bernadette just sobbed harder, and Loup went on, "Are there any volunteers to take Miss Arnett's place?"

Sarina's body moved on its own. Her hand shot up into the air, and her voice boomed far louder than she ever remembered speaking in her life.

"I volunteer!"

* * *

**Sisal Muslin - 16 - District 8**

_One year before the Reapings_

"And that's our volunteers for this year's Hunger Games! My, what an interesting development—may District Eight see a Victor from our lovely tributes!"

Proceedings ended just as fast as they'd begun. Apparently a pair of siblings had planned to volunteer this year, orphaned and with no chance of surviving on their own. This had been their suicide pact, as far as everyone knew, and they made no attempts to hide it when they gave their reasoning for volunteering together.

Sisal was almost disgusted by how easily the escort—no, all of District Eight's officials—ignored such an obvious cry for help. The only two Victors left in Eight weren't even batting an eye—not even the one on his deathbed, oxygen tank at his side constantly while their only living Victor, Polka, was visibly high on whatever cocktail of drugs they'd taken this time. The state of mental health and care in Eight was in desperate need of improvement. These siblings were proof enough of that much, right alongside their terminal mentor and drug-abusing tagalong.

Everyone was dismissed, Ragdoll Mishi bidding everyone farewell before anyone could finally see the stress of the job get to her. Sisal always lingered ever since Ragdoll—well, Dolly, as she preferred to be called—began escorting for the district. Not everyone liked her, especially not her "just a job" mentality, but it was never hard to miss the sudden arrivals of handmade dolls in tributes' likenesses arriving in the mail of families who lost children. No one in Eight had such a talent for making dolls, and it wasn't hard to figure out that the dolls showing up _after_ a new escort probably came from the escort herself.

Today, though, Sisal was fuelled by a need to make sure everyone was okay. The siblings had only recently joined the group she attended, open all days of the week but only officially holding meetings once a fortnight. She'd seen them, seen the way other kids like her had befriended them—but if they were struggling, then it was clear Sisal and the group needed to do more. She sprinted out of the courtyard of the Justice Building, straight for her family waiting beyond the sidelines for her. Her father, Ryler, and grandfather, Chintz, were already speaking with the parents of a few teens Sisal knew from her group; her sister, Arma, was right behind her and eagerly urging her to continue on as the adults continued to converse.

"See you at home!" Arma called back to their father and grandfather. Ryler seemed to miss the goodbye, but Chintz gave them a kind wave and told them to stay safe.

They only slowed into a jog once they were clear of the Justice Building. Staying too long was a point of stress at times for them, and once they were out of that stress zone it was easier to take their time and relax. It was another year over and done with, another near-miss that let them get on with their lives. Sometimes, though, the near-miss just made things different. Like today.

Sisal had been… hopeful, she supposed. The group usually worked so well for most people—herself included—but the siblings were a harsh reminder that not everyone could be helped as easily. Sisal was lucky. She got treatment and support in her own home. The siblings only had each other, neither able to lift the other up nor afford medicine and therapy. But the group had been having such a good streak! The word was getting out, the awareness they were trying to raise about the various issues anyone could face with their mental health! Hell, Sisal's own neighbour stopped calling her "the schizo" and even apologised once he found out what she went through! If they'd pushed a little harder, shouted a little louder for people to listen and _care_…

The sisters slowed to a leisurely walk then. Sisal looked at Arma, brows furrowed, before asking, "Mind if I go meet my friends and bring them to the factory?"

Arma gave her a cautious once-over. "You sure? Usually takes you a while to cool down after a reaping."

Sisal shrugged. "I'm a li'l hungry. They said they'll be meeting at a nearby cafe since one of them works a night shift and can hardly stay up after a reaping, so I figured I'd meet them."

The elder hesitated for a moment. They stopped walking entirely, and Sisal didn't fail to notice the quick attempt at a subtle glance around them Arma made. Being on their own in Eight, even after all these years, was too risky some days. But it was the day of the reapings, and the one person they wanted to avoid more than anything didn't even know where they lived now.

It was safe. Sisal tried to tell her sister as such with an exasperated sigh.

"Fine," Arma whined. "But if something happens—"

"I'll run straight for the factory. I know, Arma." Sisal flung herself at Arma, hugging her tightly in thanks. Arma was just as protective as her father and grandfather, but it'd been five years already. Sisal had friends who'd help her out if her family wasn't around, anyway. "Let everyone know I'll be a little behind. I'll try convince Emerick to buy you a coffee, too."

"You're too good at this," Arma laughed. "Bribing me with expensive coffee paid for by someone else."

Sisal gave her a lopsided smile and waved to her, sprinting off in the direction of the cafe without further delay.

Viola and Emerick usually went straight for the cafe after a reaping. Their parents let them do what they pleased, considering Viola was responsible enough for everyone to trust her, and they lived closer together than they did to Sisal. Recently they'd come by her place or the factory and walk her there, but by now Sisal knew the streets she had to navigate to get there by herself. It helped that a lot of the posters hung around Eight, promoting age old fabric deals and hiring for factories, never really got taken down.

Posters like the one she helped design, permanently hung from the window of a mannequin store whose son started the group. Sisal had only known him secondhand—he was much older than her, and eventually even went into the Hunger Games one year—but his idea had been a breath of fresh air in the urban jungle that was District Eight. His parents wanted to continue his legacy, and thus the factory they let him meet with others became the official base of operations for their support group. Passionate people like Sisal, who desperately wanted people to understand what others went through properly, kept the group alive and well.

_YOU ARE NOT ALONE_, the poster declared. _FOR A SHOULDER TO LEAN ON OR SUPPORT IN DIRE TIMES, WE'RE HERE. MEETINGS HELD EVERY SATURDAY AND WEDNESDAY AT FACTORY 12._

And then, added hastily on an extra slip of paper, details that allowed for extra support meetings every day directly after reapings, right up until the end of the victory tour.

The lights of the store were turned off, still closed for the next few hours. Sisal peered through the glass before focusing on her reflection, making sure to fix her hair a little from her earlier run. She watched people walk by, paying her no mind, and she leaned forward to check her clothes as well. For all she knew, she was running around with something stuck to her or her shirt inside out.

"Pity it wasn't you this year, Sisal. No one would care if you died."

She shuddered. Sisal swallowed thickly. She should've expected to hear her mother, especially after a reaping. Her real mother didn't know where she was now, hadn't known where she was in five years—but the mother who haunted her always showed up when she least expected it.

Sisal glanced over her shoulder slowly. She scanned the groups walking past, making sure no one remotely recognisable was there waiting for her. It was best to stay calm, like her therapist taught her to, and eliminate all possible chances that what she'd heard was really happening. Truly being said. So long as she grounded herself and stayed calm, she wouldn't have a full blown episode dumped on her.

Sisal finally turned around fully, facing the crowds completely. Not a single person was looking her way, not a single face resembling her mother's. No one was even close enough to have said those horrible words to her clearly, the chatter among everyone else too loud to allow anyone so far away to be heard so well. Sisal let out a long, slow breath; relief flooded over her, and she allowed herself a small smile. _Not today, you abusive old hag_.

She turned back to the glass to give herself a final once-over—

She screamed.

Sisal stumbled back, tripping over her own heels, and landed on the ground with her hands raised defensively over her face. Her heart hammered in her chest, panic coursing through her as the words played over and over again—_please stop, don't hit me, it hurts!_

The blows never came. Sisal's hands shook violently as she opened her eyes, peeked through her makeshift barrier. People were staring at her, crowding her and asking if she was okay, but she wasn't concerned about them. She looked up at the store window, scared of what she'd find, but there was nothing. No one.

The store was closed, she reminded herself. The owners never let anyone inside without them opening first. They never knew Heather Muslin, nor did Heather Muslin know them. There was no rhyme or reason for Heather, for Sisal's witch of a mother, to be inside the store and preparing to hit her with a frying pan through the window. She just needed to breathe. She just needed to ground herself.

"I'm fine," Sisal wheezed as she was lifted to her feet. She dusted herself down, avoided looking at the storefront any longer; something was hurting, but it was hard to tell just what at the moment. "I just…"

"You've scraped yourself, dear," an older man said, greyed brows furrowing at the sight of her elbow. Sisal awkwardly navigated her arm around, catching only a glimpse of blood against the sleeve of her shirt.

She pulled the sleeve up, and as soon as she did she let out a hiss. That was going to smarts for a while.

The older man waved a hand at the people gathered around her. "Alright, folks, clear out! Give the girl some space before you suffocate her. This ain't a circus."

The crowd reluctantly parted. Sisal let out another relieved breath, her focus solely on the older man as he inspected her scrape. He was clicking his tongue and shaking his head, already fishing through his pockets for something. Sisal cradled her arm and waited, unwilling to look at anyone else at the moment.

Breathe in… Breathe out… Heather wasn't here right now. Heather didn't even know where to find her.

The old man finally pulled a handkerchief from his inner pocket, shaking it a few times to make sure there wasn't anything stuck to it. It was a large one, coloured a bright red that made Sisal do a double-take at the sheer brightness of it. Something that colour would stop traffic and redirect everyone to a detour.

He lightly pressed it to her scrape, and Sisal did her best not to flinch away as he did so. "Poor thing," he sighed, almost sympathising with her. He wrapped the hanky around her arm and began to tie it into a makeshift bandage. "You make sure you get that cleaned as soon as you can, you hear?"

"You don't have to—" Sisal started, reaching for the handkerchief. The old man waved her off, tutting her as he did so.

"Keep it," he told her. "My wife makes them as a hobby and she's wanted an excuse to give me a new one. Besides, I'd rather you keep your scrape covered than keep the hanky clean. Dirt washes off a hanky without any infection, after all."

Sisal gave him a small smile. What a roundabout way of saying such a thing. She touched the hanky fondly this time, making sure not to jostle it and unwrap it.

"Alright," she obliged. Sisal flexed her fingers, eager to keep going so she could meet Viola and Emerick, but she still hesitated. The old man noticed it easily, assessing her once more.

"What's the matter?" he asked slowly. "Is somewhere else hurting? Should I call for a Peacekeeper to take you to a doctor?"

Sisal shook her head. "No, no, I just—I was wondering." She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, back at the storefront. "Is there anyone inside the store right now? Or earlier, I should say?"

He peered over her shoulder. He was genuinely searching, but the more he relaxed the more Sisal worried. He wasn't noticing anyone, which was a good sign, but now she probably risked someone saying something insensitive about the short episode she just had.

"No one," he finally reported. Sisal tried not to blush, unable to hold her gaze on him any longer. Instead of laughing or ridiculing her for being so skittish, or worse, the old man reached out and lightly patted her shoulder. "No harm done, child. We all have days where our mind plays tricks on us. They're little bastards like that, I say."

"Yeah," Sisal said absently. "Yeah…"

"Why don't you head home for a while? You look like you could use a break after the reaping. I think we all could."

"Oh, no, I'm meeting friends. I promised I'd stop by—"

"Then I'll accompany you. That way, if you get startled again, you won't find yourself with more scrapes to clean up." He gave her a wink and offered an arm for her to take. Sisal just snorted a laugh, hiding her smile behind a hand.

Some people didn't pry. She wished at times that they did, but sometimes they didn't need to. Even if they didn't understand, they still did their best to be respectful. The old man may not have known the full extent of what made Sisal react so loudly, but he seemed to know just what she needed to relax a little more.

She rubbed the hanky again, and she looked her arm around his own. It didn't hurt to walk with someone, even if she knew the way to the cafe like the back of her hand.

* * *

**And that's the chapter! Now for what I wanted to address!**

**To the reviewer who thought it was a _fantastic_ idea to send "Delete this story if you wont bother updating", my response to you is this: **Delete your attitude if you won't bother saying anything constructive**. I have a goddamn life, and fanfiction is NOT my job. It is a HOBBY, and one I can only work at when I CAN. If you're someone who's been reading and don't have a character in the fic, you need to curb your expectations when it comes to some people being able to update at the drop of a goddamn hat. If you're a reader with a character in this story - I can't even say I'm mad, just disappointed you stooped low enough to send a review like this anonymously instead of reaching out to see if this story was active. So hats off to you, you did it, you got your update instead of messaging me and asking like a normal person would.**

**Have some class next time or don't bother demanding an update at all. I'm not going to drop my goddamn life so you can read another chapter of a fanfiction you couldn't even ask nicely to see updated. And if you _did_ submit a character into the roster, do me a favour and just ask next time if I'm still working on the fic and if it'd be okay to withdraw the character in the event you aren't satisfied.**

**To the rest of you, I'm sorry for the outburst and I'll see you next update! **


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